


superposition

by we_re_always_alright



Series: superposition [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, Dealing with PTSD, Draco Malfoy-centric, Furniture Shopping, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Romance, dealing with grief, the wizarding version of bed bath and beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22993261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_re_always_alright/pseuds/we_re_always_alright
Summary: It started in a furniture store.(Or, the wizarding equivalent of the Bed Bath and Beyond is most certainly a liminal space and potentially a pocket dimension. Draco’s not sure yet.)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: superposition [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711375
Comments: 23
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

> “What if there was a place so safe that the worst of you could be known and you wouldn’t be loved less, but more in the telling of it?” - John Lynch

  


It was rare, in his opinion, that Draco Malfoy found himself in the middle of the Patel’s store, staring at the rugs, recently imported by way of magic carpet from Bangladesh, and trying to decide if he’s ever going to bite the bullet to get one for the front room or just leave it as is and continually curse the cold stone beneath his feet. Normally, he found himself more at home amongst the rows and rows of dishes, flatware and silverware, remembering fondly the various sets his mother would have for different occasions. It had been several weeks of staring at the rugs since he had first come in making this his new haunt and still his feet were cold. By now, he knew the layout of the store, knew the aisles and the different areas where the lights didn’t quite reach as well. Where one could find a spice rack versus a spice cabinet versus spices to fill it. Typically, he was more a lurker of the home goods or the wall simply labeled ‘Oddities,’ but as of late he was more often hovering around the rugs. 

  


It had also been almost three years since the _true_ end of the war, after the last of the major skirmishes with the remaining groups of Death Eaters, the holdouts who didn’t believe it was over or didn’t want it to be over, content to watch the destruction around them with relish, had been dealt with. He didn’t know much about it, becoming a recluse for his year of punishment (to be forbidden to use magic) after the first series of trials, his ‘wand’ (though there was none) was confiscated in some vault somewhere. People had testified on both sides, but, as the Prophet reported (back before the takeover) it all came down to a single testimony. Harry Potter, calm and tired in his pitch black robes, his voice hoarse from making sure that no deed, good or bad, went unacknowledged, stood up before the Wizegamot and told how, against all odds, Draco himself was a small but crucial part of the plan to stop Voldemort, orchestrated by both Dumbledore and Severus and executed by none other than the Boy Who Lived, after Draco’s change of heart in the final hours. It was all very dramatic. 

  


Here’s how the war had ended. After the Dark Lord had turned to dust and only Potter remained, it came to light that the ministry was extremely complacent with what had happened to many, _many_ muggles and muggleborn families. Shacklebolt stood the government back up, putting into place a temporary, emergency wizegamont led by himself, the interim minister, built in part by the members that were proven not to be part of the insurrection and some select international members of the various other governments, to serve as further impartial judges. And when it was all in place, the trials had begun. Hours and hours of testimony, all splashed over the front pages of the Prophet day after day, spanning the course of six months. And no person or business once indicted was spared from the scrupulous gaze of what they now call and will call once it passed into the history books the 1998 Ministry Involvement Trials. Even the Prophet wrote of its own propaganda schemes and its own culpability in spreading misinformation and lies to create fear and panic, though with a slightly more subdued tone. They were extremely effective, both in public support and in rooting out many long-standing powerful families.

  


However, Azkaban had been razed to the ground in the war and public opinion had swayed sharply on its effectiveness on stopping dark wizards and more on _creating_ them, so, in effect, there was no where for them to go. But in a bold, and powerful, move, Shacklebolt made his second sweeping decision that punishment would be doled out in three ways: first, that a form of reparations would happen. This had gone to the largest members and largest businesses who had supported the Dark Lord or undermined the people persecuted by him. While it had cost a pretty galleon to the Malfoy family, others like the Crabbe’s and the Greengrass’ had been forced to entirely empty their coffers and the Prophet had been entirely defunded. These reparations then were redistributed amongst the worst hit victims, rebuilding key locations in the communities and funding the second part of the plan. 

  


Part two was punishment for those who had done the worst of the crimes, banned and prevented from ever using magic again, they were sent to a commune, in a newly constructed and staffed building, to live out their sentences. Why they weren’t just executed, as some were very fond of writing into the struggling Prophet about, was that Shacklebolt’s goal was rehabilitating a majority of the people and a lot of them, as much as it pained him to say, were still people and still connected. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it handled the worst of them. 

  


The last part was the final and most brilliant part of his plan, and ultimately where Draco and his mother had ended up. Since there were too many people who were implicated enough that needed punishing but not nearly enough that warranted permanent banishment from magic, they were instead blocked from magic for a period of time, wands confiscated, wards in place and left in muggle villages across the country, under observation but mostly left alone. It was low cost and had an _extremely_ high approval rating, so much so that when Shacklebolt had stepped down for elections to continue, he was immediately re-elected. Those who wanted the death penalty were satisfied that the worst would be punished with their worst nightmare, the rehabilitationists were ecstatic to see so many people rehabilitated and the pragmatists realized that it was the best bloody option they had and moved on. 

  


The punishment was nearly like a great trial itself, his way of proving to the rest of the Wizarding World that yes, even the son of an esteemed Death Eater, could change back into a member of society. But that had been over for more than a year at this point. There was no point in dwelling on it.

  


His gaze lifted up, wondering if anyone actually bought the ones on the highest shelves. Draco wasn’t quite sure what was so entrancing about the lights here—they weren’t torches, or flickering candlelight, a comforting sight of his childhood and his school years and one very terrifying incident during a heatwave vis a vis his punishment, and they definitely weren’t the obnoxious bright white lights of the muggle world. He wasn’t even sure why he always ended up here, roaming the open late rows of product supplied by the Patel family. Maybe he’d just found something he liked, that the store was anonymous enough that no one recognized him from the copies of the old Prophet or maybe they just didn’t care, such was the clientele. It was a good feeling, a strange but good feeling, to know that no one around you knew or cared who you were. It was freeing after a life of notoriety.

  


Either way, he found himself here often enough. And now staring at the rugs.

  


“D’you think a red rug is too predictable?” said the smooth voice that broke his staring. He turned and there he was.

  


Harry Fucking Potter. _Was nothing sacred._

  


“I mean, they’re all nice, as far as rugs go,” and he gave a half smile at Draco, as if there wasn’t a gulf of history and emotion and baggage between them, because he was Harry Fucking Potter and that was just the lark of a life he led, having conversations about rugs with people he tangentially knew, “Not that I would know but you’re someone of good taste—is red too tacky and decidedly Gryffindor?”

  


He had changed quite a bit since the war, but then a lot of them had. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, was taller, a slight bit more well fed, a bit less hunted in how he stood, but without the arrogance that Draco had seen or remembered seeing in their school years. Even his scar was slightly faded, covered in part by his ever unruly hair. His eyes covered by better glasses, probably recommended by his ex-girlfriend or maybe Granger, and probably the latter based on the sheer nagging capabilities, assuming that at least in any weird universe he was living in that _that_ was a sure constant. If Draco was being honest, he too hardly looked like he did in school and this probably worked to his advantage, despite the emptiness of the hour before closing in Patel’s Emporium of Fine Goods Near and Far. But he looked good, not perfect or golden, but good. He felt frozen.

  


What do you say to someone who you spent years obsessing over? Spent years trying to kill, out of youthful arrogance that you would live forever? Spent years trying to understand _why_ out of all the young Death Eaters, did you choose to help _me_?

  


His mouth, however, moved without him, apparently unbothered by the social quandary he was in.

  


“Well, it would be very on brand.”

  


Potter laughed, shaking his head, “It would, wouldn’t it? What would you suggest then? Slytherin green? Ravenclaw blue? Not Hufflepuff yellow?”

  


“Yellow would be ghastly,” Draco seemed to be agreeing, going along with this bizarre conversation as if he weren’t sitting here talking with his former mortal enemy and instead just chatting with a stranger about rug colors of all things, “Go with gray. Or taupe. Safe and neutral.”

  


“Safe and neutral,” Potter mused next to him, rolling around the words in his lower class accent, as if trying them out, “Well, I couldn’t hope for anything better than that. Better than freezing my toes when I wake up, right?” _Could he read minds?_

  


“Far better,” Draco agreed after too long of a pause.

  


“Right, thanks for the advice, Draco. Knew I could count on a Malfoy to know his way around rugs. Cheers then,” and with a nod, Harry Fucking Potter, Chosen One and golden boy, picked up a gray rug and walked up to the front of the store and left Draco to ponder just what happened.

  


* * *

  


It took roughly until closing time, when the lights flickered twice, much like in a theater, signifying that Patel’s shop was closing, for Draco’s heart to stop beating so fast. It took him the entirety of the five warning minutes to actually exit the shop.

  


He wasn’t sure why it had affected him so much, the war was so far in the past, the antagonism of the seven years spent leading up to it so long behind him, even his father’s death was more than two years ago. In a way, he was angry.

  


Here he was, floating along peacefully, following the march of time and along came Potter and his laundry list of issues and memories that Draco didn’t want. He’s put so much of it behind him, so much of it dead and buried that to resurrect it was truly a violation of the natural order of things. He didn’t want it and Potter had no business doing it.

  


And at the same time, the voice that hung in the back of his mind, the one that reminded him to _stop_ and _wait_ and _Merlin that much Firewhiskey is_ always _a bad idea_ , whispered to him that it wasn’t actually Potter’s fault he was angry. But that wasn’t what he wanted to hear, wasn’t what the wounded animal of his ego wanted.

  


It was so beyond late at this point, his mind circling round and round on what it meant, rewriting the conversation where he came out on top or where Potter felt so awful for approaching him that he left in shame or that, even curiouser, he left with him. Draco didn’t like to dwell on any of these situations but no matter which way he turned on the rich sheets or how he fluffed his pillows or how often he tried counting backwards from 100, sleep eluded him. He turned again towards the window, regretting everything that had happened there and hating the thousand things that hadn’t. _It’s not like I have a job to get to or anything,_ he told his accursed mind.

  


So he sat there in the dark of his flat, staring out at the empty lights of the city, the moving stars in the sky, and cursed the entrancing nature of the Patel’s store. Wishing for morning to come quickly yet wishing he had more time.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes will probably get longer and longer as the story goes on because I did SO MUCH MATH for this. I will try and publish this weekly as it's basically written out, all ten chapters of it.
> 
> If you want to find me otherwise, I'm still on tumblr (we-re-always-alright) and the ask box is always open.
> 
> Songs For this Story:
> 
>   1. [Good News - Julien Baker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSgWPJy01es)
>   2. [Bottles and Cans - McCafferty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOf2FZqIEjE)
> 

> 
>   
>  [Full Playlist Link (Potential Spoilers)](https://open.spotify.com/user/sko9/playlist/3gN6SC5eALPNyKnI4dQU7r?si=MOw2GQuDQrid89mFUWy7FA)


	2. Chapter 2

The next day at the firm had been a nightmare; he was snappish and rude, aggravated at the slightest perceived offense and even Blaise, the most unflappable person, had agreed in sending him home. _Being rude or annoyed or grating was fine, normally, but not all three on the same day, Draco, you understand._

  


Once he’d gone home, he eagerly set about putting this odd occurrence behind him, Draco had returned to his normal routine. He avoided the rugs permanently— that seemed the safest way. Surely Potter, the rich victor that will be remembered in history, was looking for many rugs to furnish the many rooms of his home. And he wasn’t jealous, the Manor had been tarnished beyond all belief and his mother and he had both agreed that selling everything and keeping the place empty was the best option, in terms of the reparations and the legal fees and the funeral and their costs, but it still stung. That losing was so costly and winning so princely a reward.

  


It didn’t mean that he didn’t think about it, in fact he thought about their short encounter often. In his weaker moments, he could feel paranoia climb up his throat, telling him against reason that it was a conspiracy. In others, he was reminded of his acute loneliness, Pansy gone off to France, Blaise more a coworker than a friend, his own mother and their stilted conversations, his circle so small compared to the brief brush with Potter’s large and eclectic group of friends. _No doubt,_ he reminded himself to drive the knife in deeper as he polished off a bottle of cheap American Malbec, _Potter is hardly thinking of you right now._ He woke up often with a hangover on those days but such was the punishment.

  


Regardless, Draco was now roaming around Housewares a few months later, looking at the neat rows of plates, serving dishes, platters, decorative plates and other ceramics that made up the special aisle dedicated solely to ceramics. There was porcelain too, which was ironic considering the title of the aisle but the designs were quite good. He traced the edge of a teacup from Germany, where a little bee hovered around the center of the lilacs painted there. He hadn’t been sleeping well for a few weeks now, nightmares of shapeless things and roiling anxiety plagued his bedroom so he’d taken to walking the shop floor every now and then. In the background of the store, and apparently the closer you got to checkout, the easier it was to hear the muzak being piped in from the wireless. He didn’t recognize the music but it was a nice tune.

  


“ _Lonely, but not when you hold me…_ ” the woman crooned over the piano and Draco scoffed a little.

  


“Not a fan of love songs?” Draco nearly jumped but not out of being startled. More that he couldn’t believe, though that was his own doing, that Harry Potter had found him again. It seemed that he was going to have to abandon this store.

  


“Merlin, must you do that?” Draco turned around to argue with him. Potter just seemed to grin in return, as if this wasn’t an odd thing.

  


“I would have thought that with all the training before and during the war, you’d startle less.” Anger flared up in Draco.

  


“I wasn’t _startled,_ I was surprised that you were here again. Furnishing more rooms in your victor’s palace?” Potter just shook his head, his smile smaller.

  


“It’s hardly a palace, more of a flat really, I think it’s only 90 square meters and it’s in Pimlico so. Not really like a palace at all. I wouldn’t even mark it a single family home, only two bedrooms and a bath and a half, so not ideal for more than one or two people.” He seemed nervous now, maybe it was the porcelain; after all, this aisle was marked for ceramics. Draco shook his head slightly, trying to regain his wits about him. Potter looked at him quizzically, so clearly he’d noticed.

  


“Never took you for living in the city.”

  


“It’s less quiet here and no one seems to know who I am, so I am free to wander aisles of rugs and teacups to my hearts content. Were you reading?” Potter motioned with a flippant hand towards the book under Draco’s arm. He felt like a child with his hand in the sweets jar.

  


During the year in magical seclusion, he didn’t have much to do, and there wasn’t much in terms of the muggle village near the manor, so he ended up walking around to pass the time. And when that became boring, he read everything in the tiny place. And when he ran out of cheap romance paperbacks and a collection of dull books by someone named Dickens, he found his way to the library and kept reading there. Luckily, his interactions with the Muggles were slow, or entirely soundless, and bit by bit, he got used to them. And while he did, he read their books. Mostly fiction, the classics, as the librarian would tell him, _Pride and Prejudice_ (too lurid), _The Great Gatsby_ (a little too futuristic), _Romeo and Juliet_ (rather good for historical fiction), _Animal Farm_ and _To Kill a Mockingbird_ (far too deep of a look into himself) and even more. When the librarian knew he was going to read essentially everything they had, she gave him a list to go through: 100 Books to Read Before You Die. And after a while, more popular books of the day, to cut through all of the older prose he was reading. 

  


Apparently, all of the papers would put together list of the biggest books of the week and let everyone know—the one from America was the most popular and prestigious list—so it was on the covers of all the books to let you know it was popular. Those were harder to read—too much information and bloody crime and political intrigue for him to understand. When the librarian took note, she switched him to something classic, “You’ll enjoy these, they’re so exceptional and classics for a reason!” 

  


It wasn’t an ideal way to pass hours but reading their books, watching their movements, their lives, he started to sympathize with them. They were just as unhappy as he was at times, lost in a world where they couldn’t change without magic and yet...at times they were happy. Blindingly happy in their own world. He couldn’t help but think of _Anna Karenina_ (a book he slogged through during the coldest part of winter after his father died and well after his punishment was over), _All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way._ His father had never changed. In a large part, reading and his small interactions changed how he thought of them and maybe that had led them here, to this exact spot.

  


He looked down at _Casino Royale._ He was still working his way through all of the James Bond novels.

  


“I was reading, in the park, earlier...” There wasn’t really a big park nearby, not like he’d seen the Muggles really do but it was enough for a few benches and it let him sit in peace.

  


“Never took you as much of a reader,” Potter admitted, “Or at least not someone who read for fun.”

  


“I started after the sentencing.”

  


“Oh,” he said it more like an exhale of air than a word and the silence settled over them.

  


They stared at each other, while the woman kept singing around them, “ _Honestly, your lips would never lie to me…_ ”

  


Potter turned instead to the plates, looking through them, before saying, “So what do you do?”

  


“Do?” Draco was still staring at him as he moved from the soft taupe ceramics from Turkey to the China from Poland. 

  


“For money, you know, a job,” the reddish-brown skinned man looked at him, quickly sliding his eyes across his form before turning back to plates, “Aside from being the Malfoy heir.”

  


“Not much money in being an heir these days,” he admits, returning to the teacups, making them look, for all intents and purposes, like two strangers and not something else. “I work with Blaise at his firm—it’s like curse breaking, specifically dark magic. There’s a lot of it left lying around.”

  


“Sounds like busy work.”

  


Draco shrugs. He enjoys the parts of his job where he spends hours manipulating and maneuvering the magic to do what he needs. It’s hard work but very rewarding when everything goes right. He doesn’t like working with aurors or his coworkers, who still look at him with fear and distrust. A lot of the people at the firm were on the outside of the Death Eaters, or just come from longstanding pure blood families with experience in this sort of hereditary magic, but until Draco joined, Blaise was the one who was deepest into the group, which was to say not very deep. Even though the skin is numb, dead from the magic leaving it, his dark mark stings like a phantom limb and he itches it subconsciously.

  


“Probably as enjoyable as you aurors enjoy working with us.” Potter chuckles, lifting up another plate, this one dark blue with a matte finish.

  


“Your sources are wrong then, I haven’t been an auror in a while.” Draco looked at him again. _Potter_ not _an auror?_

  


“What do you think of this one?” Potter looked to him expectantly. “Too blue?”

  


“For your girlfriend?”

  


“For myself—figure at some point I should get a full set.” It seemed an important point to him. _A full set?_ Draco was still confused but he couldn’t _not_ have an opinion.

  


“Don’t pick the matte finish—it scrapes against silverware horribly.”

  


“Oh,” Potter put the plate down, “That would be annoying.” But then he seemed just as lost as before.

  


“Smooth finish. And then a color that compliments your kitchen. Which is...?”

  


“Well, green but I’m looking to go with a blue. Eventually.” He ponders this, looking at the row of dish sets, book set on a lower level of dish ware in a ghastly mustard. Suddenly he feels so tired, giving his opinion to someone who cares not one iota about him, exhausted from lack of sleep, sleepy from sitting in the weak autumn sun earlier. Almost as if this short interaction had used up the last of his energy. But look at the plates he did and—

  


“You look tired, do you—”

  


“This one,” Draco cut him off, silencing whatever false platitude he was about to toss out by holding up a slate set, with a smooth finish and a subtle pattern that wouldn’t wear away or become tacky in a few years.

  


“Oh.” Harry Potter looked at it in shock but then his lips curled up in a smile, taking the plate carefully, “You’re really good at this.”

  


“Careful,” Draco said, tucking his book back under his arm, “I might have to start charging for my interior design expertise.” He started heading towards the door as Potter’s laughter followed him.

  


“See you around Draco!”

  


He wouldn’t admit it, but it gave him a quirk of a smile that he blamed on his tiredness. 

  


As he walked towards where he would normally apparate from, he could feel the tiredness truly settle deep into his bones. At work, Draco would be what one would describe as a loner. He kept to himself and for good reason. Letting people in was a full effort and taxing, getting them to see beyond the name and the story and the past—it was in this way he admired Blaise and his family. If the Zabini’s had one talent in excess, it was being on the winning side, always. They had played close enough to the Death Eaters to avoid any form of setback when the Dark Lord had taken power; yet, they were far enough to avoid perjury when they said they were acting out of self preservation. They had Slytherin pride of course, but Slytherin cunning was far more valuable to them in all aspects, so they weren’t ashamed to lick boots if it served them better in the long run and left them in charge of themselves and their wealth.

  


That power extended to making friends and allies as well, Blaise was popular and cool enough at work that any favor he asked would be fulfilled, rain or shine and without the need to bribe, coerce or threaten anyone. Draco never had that in him, or at least didn’t know how to begin where it didn’t take every ounce of his patience, resolve and ability to not roll his eyes. But he was better off alone regardless.

  


As he reached the alley, he shook it all off, focusing on his warm, dry and empty home. At least, there was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Posting this early to remind everyone to go register to vote! Vote by mail, vote early, vote from overseas, just VOTE America! Will post chapter 3 on Monday as a reward :-)_
> 
> In case anyone wanted to know, housing prices have gone up a lot between 2000 and now (something like 200%), so the price of a 2 flat in the cheaper part of Pimlico is relatively reasonable. As a note, Harry most definitely bought the house with his Galleons, which are straight up gold and the price of gold per oz was roughly 270 USD or roughly 189 GBP in 2000, give or take. It’s Friday so I’m going to play fast and loose here with the numbers and round a lot.
> 
> Assuming that Galleons are not pure gold and would be roughly half that price (a conservative estimate considering _Goblins_ ), that would mean a single galleon is roughly 31 GBP (6g = 1 galleon, 28g in 1 oz, so at half gold purity 8 galleons would “equal” one “pure” oz of gold) so a thousand galleons would be equal to 31,000 GBP, so spending a few thousands galleons for a millionaire (someone took the time to calculate how much money was in Harry’s vault in the movies-and also Jo confirmed that Harry was essentially a millionaire - rough estimates would bring his ~45K Galleons to equal 1.3M GBP when converted) to buy a flat in a area that was less expensive 20 years ago is not at all out of the question.
> 
> Assuming that the gold in the galleons _is_ pure gets us an even higher 62,000 GBP per 1000 Galleons to play with (and a total wealth of 2.7M GBP), the price of a flat in Pimlico in 2000 (average around 337,000GBP, which isn’t a great measure considering that the price would vary across the neighborhood, the various schools, how many rooms, etc and median would work better but we’re guesstimating here) and now (roughly 1.1M GBP) is greatly different so you’re going to have to believe with me on this one that for 2-3,000 galleons Harry Potter bought a small two room flat in a decent but not great area of muggle Pimlico in the year 2000 by unwittingly using economics. Maybe from a Y2K fanatic or a Euro fanatic, either way being mobbed at a wizarding bank to go quietly pay cash for a house doesn’t seem like his bag, so assume he went to a muggle bank and walked out with enough to lay down some fat stacks.
> 
>  **Why is this important?** Because the goblins are essentially pocketing the profits—a single galleon converted to GBP is about 10GBP at Gringrott’s whereas if you convert it from “pure gold” to GBP it’s worth 72-145GBP, at today’s prices. Wild. Even more wild? Harry’s minimum net worth in today’s prices would be anywhere from 3.2M-6.5M GBP, not counting the other stacks of coins in his bank, interest rates, the value of his holdings OR the residuals (potentially) of the Potter name.
> 
> This my friends is called [arbitrage](https://www.investopedia.com/terms/a/arbitrage.asp), people do it all the time, and most _certainly_ why I went to school, spent 3.5 years and got a degree in economics to calculate fake currencies and also how you could become a millionaire with exchange rates and a LOT of patience.
> 
> If you want to find me, I'm still on tumblr (we-re-always-alright) and the ask box is always open.  
> Songs For this Story:
> 
>   1. [Good News - Julien Baker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSgWPJy01es)
>   2. [Bottles and Cans - McCafferty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOf2FZqIEjE)
>   3. *[One of One - duendita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gwYIrJsIys)* 
>   4. *[I’m So Tired - Fugazi](https://youtu.be/_Nv11dYMsXQ)* 
> 

> 
>   
>    
>  [Full Playlist Link (Potential Spoilers)](https://open.spotify.com/user/sko9/playlist/3gN6SC5eALPNyKnI4dQU7r?si=MOw2GQuDQrid89mFUWy7FA)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a tiny bit of body horror in this one but nothing more dangerous than a movie review of like a Stephen King book would have.

Draco Malfoy didn’t know what the call was about until it was far too late. He hated these. 

  


After the war, there were an abundance of residences that, by force, coercion or by submission, were converted from homes into death eater strongholds. Cursed properties laced with dozens of unique and violent things that were Draco’s job to remove. 

  


Usually, a prospective family or the government would contact the firm on the property in question. The lower level breakers would research the property, followed by an initial look by the junior partners to feel out the limits in the curses. These two groups would return and present these notes to the partners or advanced members of the firm, who would determine the best suited member and potential courses of action. Final discretion was always left up to the head curse breaker, but often the majority of the busywork was left to younger members. Then the curse breaker for the case would formulate a plan, come up with how they would resolve the curses and potential curses, and assume any contingencies they might need. In the end, it was a little bit clinical. The research, the diagnosis, the treatment. Mostly solitary, mostly mentally taxing but emotionally devoid, the places empty and bare of wizard or witch affects. 

  


It was cases like these he hated. 

  


These cases were awful, start to finish, and usually with a trail of bodies in their midst. Some witch or wizard, or in this case, a whole family, had moved back into their home, unsuspecting of what lie inside. They never assumed, despite any warnings, that it could happen to _them._ So they would waltz in and, if they were lucky, they would be hospitalized for a few days. 

  


In this case, it was a bad one. 

  


Almost instantly, the father was eviscerated, his innards strewn about the kitchen in a macabre display once he had tripped the trap. His oldest son was next, who in his haste had trigged the jellying curse, which turned his bones to acid and ate its way through his soft flesh. Then the next brother, terrified, had simply been vaporized by a series of heated curses. The mother was currently stuck under an enchanted weight, designed to slowly crush, while the youngest daughter, trapped and wounded from the fringes in the doorway sat, frightened and crying and in view of the whole thing. 

  


These cases were the stuff of nightmares. 

  


By the time they had called for and Draco had been dispatched, there wasn’t much he could do. Yes, he had experience with these specific curses, but once the victim was dead, there was nothing even he could do, it was an exercise in futility. He recognized the Carrows handiwork of course, the cold chill sitting along his spine like a coiled serpent, which was what made them hard to detect. You never knew how bad it was until it was tripped and then it it hit you like a bludger to the face. There was no avoiding it at a certain point, you had to let it run its course. 

  


By the time he’d gotten there and assessed the scene, dour aurors hanging all around him in the heavy sun shower around him, eyeing his investigative measures with suspicion, there was little he could do. The sun and rain combination was the smallest irony of the day. Draco ducked inside the house, the preliminary look at the house had revealed nothing more than what had already happened. It was the stuff of nightmares. He pulled back out to talk to the head auror, a tall man with a permanent scowl and half an ear.

  


“I need their names.”

  


“Their names? What do you need that for?” Draco lost all of his short patience there, turning on the man, the stress of the day coming out while warm rain dropped down his collar. 

  


“Yes, I need their names because there is a terrified mother and child in there who just watched their family die and panicking is only going to make it worse.” Even though he was a foot shorter, the auror recoiled at the icy heat in his voice. _Good_ , Draco thought with hollow vindication, _serves him right._

  


“Mikaela and Lacey Stone.”

  


“Thank you, truly,” he added with a drawl. He ducked back into the house, wand at the ready. 

  


The girl was pressed corner by the door. She was a small for her age, probably five or six, and clearly took after her mother, who was currently behind slowly pressed into the wall by the opposite wall of the hallway, the two mirrors replicating her image ad nauseam. 

  


First order of business was to get the girl out, since she seemed to only suffer a few abrasions and perhaps a broken wrist. Better to get her secure where she wouldn’t see the rest of the damage. 

  


“Lacey?” She whipped her head around, panicked breaths joining the sounds of the crushing wall. “Lacey, my name is Draco I’m here to—“

  


He’d barely gotten the words out when she’d flung herself at him, clinging as she trigged another curse which he barely deflected into the dining room, a wave of destruction ripping through the table and china cabinet. 

  


What they don’t tell you about in much of dark magic cursebreaking, as small a field as it is, is that sometimes, there’s not much you can do to actually break the curse. Most curses were intended to be used in the moment, when emotions, or lack there of, where high and potent, giving each curse an extra edge. But dark curses settled into objects, festering like mold, those could be violent and deadly, twisting just as much as their creators. It was rarely possible to know the exact effects of the curse itself, particularly if the creator was dead. 

  


Typically, if you knew enough about the long standing branch of dark or hereditary magic, you could find the ways to diffuse it, but it was harder to do with older dark curses from more insular families. So sometimes, the only solution was to trigger it, as embedded as it was into the very bones of the building it inhabited. Instead, you need to direct the flow of magic elsewhere, because the magic itself is so wrought with hate and pain that the energy must be expended. In fact, knowing dueling as well as he did, plus the summers at the manor, only increased his abilities to spin the dark magic from its point of origin, feel his new wand heat up with crackling energy and hurl it away with a twist, breathing a grateful sigh every time it worked. 

  


She sobbed into his shoulder, mumbling and crying and warm. Draco felt all his body slowly stabilize after the spike of energy from the deflection, they were lucky that he’d had enough time to recognize the spell work. A favorite of Herringborn, the curse was a parting gift for whoever had survived the initial assault. It was nearly impossible to detect unless you were to last person to leave after the initial curses and, well, there wouldn’t be much left of you after. He’d seen it happen enough times to know the signs and knew he had a good chance of avoiding it but on the fly...

  


Realistically, he and Lacey were both very lucky that day.

  


He tried to push Lacey out— with her safe, he’d be able to try and save Mikaela, he was now trying to call out, “Mikaela Stone, I have your daughter, she’s safe for now, how are you doing?” At no point in his cursebreaking training did they ever go over how to handle victims. In fact, it was often why Draco would avoid the cases were people were already there, preferring to avoid any awkward stares or silences. But this week a new group of people were moving into reclaimed homes, which meant the firm was stretched thin and considering all the rest of his cases were in the next wave, he’d been the last one available on short notice. Water pounded the sides of the house at a dull roar.

  


“Please,” the woman’s voice was shallow and weak and he hand to strain to hear her, leaning in over the doorstep but not actually stepping in, “Please save Lacey.” So long as she didn’t move much, the mirrors would move very very slowly and he would have some shot at disarming it.

  


“I will Mrs. Stone,” and with that promise, he tried to push Lacey out the door but she was clinging too tightly.

  


“Lacey, please, you need to let go so I can help your mother,” but that only made her cling harder, her breaths coming in shallow pants as she entered an even more panicked state, “Lacey please, let go.”

  


Her mother whined in the background, her hands grasping for her daughter and the mirrors pressed closer—

  


“Mrs. Stone stop moving!” He started the incantation but Lacey gave another cry, interrupting him, “Lacey, you need to go _now!_ ”

  


“Mummy!” She sobbed, paying no attention to Draco, instead reaching out for her mother who struggled more in reaction to her daughters cries, he yanked her back, holding the struggling girl as her mother kept reaching, the mirrors pulling her hair back. He couldn’t wave his wand and do much while still holding the daughter.

  


“Mikaela you need to stop!“ But she didn’t and Draco couldn’t close his eyes but finally had pressed Lacey into his shoulder, her screams turning to howls of distress, as the mirrors cracked Mikaela Stone’s bones, starting with her skull, chest and hips, and compressed her to death in the span of five seconds. He couldn’t hold Lacey tight and away from seeing the scene and cover her ears at the same time, so they both had to listen to her lungs, eyes, pop, the bones crunch and grind against one another and the wheezes come to a halting end. There wasn’t anything he could do but watch, she deserved at least that much, to know she wasn’t alone.

  


All there was was silence. He watched the blood drip onto the floor while Lacey tried to see. He couldn’t let her. He turned back out, and nearly ran into the tall auror again.

  


“Merlin, I thought you were supposed to help—”

  


“Oh fuck _off,_ ” he said, not really caring anymore and emotionally wrung through, “What were you off doing while I was _trying_ to help and handle an emotionally distraught five year old?!” Lacey had stopped struggling now, the warm rain a shock to her system as she stood there numbly between them. “It’s _your_ fault I couldn’t help. Now _you_ can go watch her while I clear the rest of the fucking house.” He gently detached Lacey and gave her to the shocked auror, hair matted to her head and _god she looks so much like her mother._ He dropped his voice down to a hoarse whisper, it was still a bit chilly out to be standing even in warm rain and he never yelled much as it was, but this would be more threatening, “And you better do a good job of it or else.”

  


And with a dramatic turn Severus would have been proud of, he went back into the house.

  


* * *

  


It took him another hour to clear out what was left in the house. A few more compression curses in the bedrooms, the bathrooms charmed to flood and drown their victims, blasting and charring curses designed to loosen limbs and leave the victim on fire. It was easy to recognize a lot of them, but removing them was a lot of work—simple to learn, difficult to master.

  


By the time he’d reached the last compression curse on the last spare bedroom, he was swaying just a little on his feet and in his exhaustion, he must have deflected it the wrong way, taking one of the walls clear off, scattering splinters and plaster everywhere as he watched the wall compress itself into vanishing.

  


_Oh._ It had finally stopped raining.

  


Draco composed himself, blind to the small splinters still clinging to his cloak and the small cuts along his temple, but well enough to know that he should at least exit with dignity.

  


The aurors were still milling about, an older one smoking on a pipe as they watched the house with suspicion and finally himself with the same looks as he exited onto the wet lawn, “Well, Malfoy?”

  


“It’s clear. I would be cautious of any nausea, some of the magic was well set in. Seems to be Herringborn’s work, with some variations from the Carrows, but the curses are gone so you’re free to go in,” he pushed his hair back with a sigh as they brushed past him, leaving a rookie pair outside as was customary, he was soaked all the way through and just wanted some time to sit down and rest and head home and—

  


“Oh not again,” he couldn’t help but say out loud but there he was, Harry Potter, talking with Lacey Stone and wrapping her in a warm dry blanket, a few meters away while she sat on a semi-dry shaded bench in the overcast light. Maybe he could just leave before anyone noticed—and no, of course not, because Potter was looking up and meeting his eyes with his green ones and smiling sadly.

  


Well. Now they had to talk. It was only years of proper rearing and breeding that kept Draco from doing exactly what he wanted to do (quickly apparate home, exhaustion be damned and try to warm up) and instead head directly over to Potter and ask him what he was doing.

  


But when he’d reached the bench, his nice shoes sinking slightly into the mud, cloak clinging to him as it drips into the grass, he couldn’t be angry, not when Lacey was right there, all alone now in the world.

  


“How is she?” is what he said, ignoring the fact that Potter was here and warm and dry, the bastard.

  


“She’s doing alright, a small fracture in her wrist but nothing I couldn’t fix up,” he looked down at the girl and gently brushed her wet hair back from her face, “How are you doing Draco?”

  


Draco just blinked at him owlishly.

  


“Well,” the anger of the day, combined with the exhaustion spiked and rose higher, before cresting and falling. All he really wanted was someone to tell him he did all he could. So he settled in the middle: “Could be better.”

  


“Could be worse,” Potter countered, giving him that same small smile.

  


“Ever the optimist, Potter.”

  


“Must be all that Gryffindor stupidity.” This he could handle, not the caring but the back and forth, it was easy to parry and—

  


“Malfoy?” Draco didn’t quite droop, but it was a near thing. It was the Dour, Tall Auror again, “We’re going to need you to do a walkthrough and give us your statement for the record—” He stumbled on his words, looking at Harry Potter standing next to Draco, “—Oh, Auror Potter,” he blustered out, standing a little taller, “I didn’t realize you were here.”

  


“Hello Auror Billings, nice to see you’ve been staying dry, and you know it’s Mr. Potter,” Potter responded, his voice even dryer as he let his eyes slide over to Draco and Lacey, both soaking wet.

  


“Right, well,” he paled and flushed at the same time, it was quite a sight, “We’ll just be borrowing Malfoy and get him off your hands, sorry about that—” Draco ducked out of his ushering hand only barely, regardless of if he were an auror or not, one did not simply _push_ a Malfoy to do anything.

  


“Actually,” Potter interjected, a slightly amused curl to his lips, “Auror Weasley said I could take both of them in for their statements, as this would fall under _my_ jurisdiction.”

  


“But,” Billings floundered for a second, wanting to control his case but also wanting to follow orders. Maybe if Draco was lucky, he would simply explode from indecision and— suddenly all he could think of was the woman grasping and reaching for her daughter and it felt like icy water had been poured all around him. The humor was gone and if he were any paler, they might end up having to call the Spirit task force out here.

  


“Auror Billings,” Potter added more forcefully, tearing his eyes away from Draco, “I believe that was an order from a superior.”

  


“Right,” he finally snapped to it, “You’re free to go then. Let me know when you have the statement ready Auro— Mr. Potter,” Potter raised an eyebrow. “Please?”

  


“Will do, cheers,” and using some sort of inherent magic that came with being Harry Fucking Potter, moved the little group, Lacey in his arms, down to the end of the laneway, heading to the apparition point that had been set up earlier. Draco wasn’t sure what to say, considering that Potter had just lied to get him away from the scene for clearly some obscure purpose only known to him and without much more to add, he was just following. Mostly because he was sure if he tried to speak or deviated from the simple instructions, he would end up losing this mornings half eaten breakfast into the gravel road.

  


“Don’t worry Lacey, we’ll get you and Draco nice and dry soon,” Potter said, stepping into the point while three cleaners stepped past them, ready to compile and remove the bodies, and held out his hand, landing on Draco’s shoulder, who looked at him a daze, and with a tug, they popped out of the space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need something lighthearted to think about versus this very sad sounding story, please consider the crushing walls scene from [Escape From the House of Mummies Part Two](https://youtu.be/AVAjY6Xl7mE) from the Venture Brothers. That whole episode was golden and kept me from feeling too bad about the fictional Stone family. Who doesn’t love hot voil? 
> 
> Herringbon _e_ , of course, is a popular pattern of fabric / knitting / moasiacs /etc based on the bones of a fish, first used in the 1600s. I figured it was a fitting homage for a longstanding pureblood family. The others are just random names that sound sufficiently old. 
> 
> I can’t believe Killing Me Softly came out in 1996. Gosh I feel old. Daddy Issues was picked because the second that song starts, all I can think of is rain.
> 
> If you want to find me, I'm still on tumblr (we-re-always-alright) and the ask box is always open.
> 
> Songs For this Story:
> 
>   1. [Good News - Julien Baker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSgWPJy01es)
>   2. [Bottles and Cans - McCafferty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOf2FZqIEjE)
>   3. [One of One - duendita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gwYIrJsIys)
>   4. [I’m So Tired - Fugazi](https://youtu.be/_Nv11dYMsXQ)
>   5. *[Killing Me Softly - Fugees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppz-cwLeqo)* 
>   6. *[Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnLAa6_hB9A)* 
> 

> 
>   
>  [Full Playlist Link (Potential Spoilers)](https://open.spotify.com/user/sko9/playlist/3gN6SC5eALPNyKnI4dQU7r?si=MOw2GQuDQrid89mFUWy7FA)   
> 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early bonus before Monday because I’m stuck working from home until MID APRIL and I’m bored already :-)

By the time Draco looked up from his tea at Harry sitting at his desk, dutifully writing reports with what he called a biro, it had been another couple of hours, but time had been fluctuating oddly since he’d arrived at the Ministry of Magic. 

  


They’d apparated directly into Harry’s office, something he wasn't sure how they did but he was grateful for, a small but cozy space between the second (Department of Magical Law Enforcement) and third (Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes) levels, Harry described as he set Lacey down on the tiny couch by the fireplace. His tone was smooth and soothing. “Makes it harder for people to find me,” he added with a grin at Draco who stared blankly back at him. The grin had disappeared.

  


It was then that Harry set about getting Lacey dried off, the charms warming her at the same time, and a cup of tea prepared and Draco looked around the office for want of something to do.

  


It was roughly a eight or nine square meter space, with one long wall where the door sat, covered in bookshelves, case law and filing cabinets, which carried around the corner, past the small table with the tea service bubbling along, around behind the desk, where it looked like the files and books and case law turned more personal and had stuffed toys, blankets and spare clothes before turning into a coat rack where Harry hung up his slightly damp cloak. He wasn’t dressed as a wizard usually was, or an auror usually was at the least, instead wearing jeans and an odd muggle jumper advertising Greenwich University. His desk was relatively orderly, a cup of quills and strange devices sitting on the desk, parchment and other forms of paper in neat piles, a stack of memos and notes in their appropriate boxes. Above it sat a few muggle and non-muggle photos of deceased family and his living friends. Along the wall opposite of the desk and next to the fireplace was the small blue couch, where Lacey was currently tucked under a blanket and holding her mug of tea, staring into the flames. Above the couch was a false window that looked for all purposes, as though you could see a silent view of the Thames running by. It was entrancing to watch.

  


Once Lacey was settled, Harry also took his cloak, gently hanging it up to dry as well and guided him to the cushy chair sitting in front of his desk. The wireless on the mantle kicked on and classical music began playing out of it softly, and while he was drying himself off, rolling up his sleeves with no hesitation—Harry has already seen the mark long before, when it was a stark contrast to his pale skin— he felt a warm drowsiness settle in. He sat heavily but gracefully in the chair opposite Harry's. He would just rest his eyes for a second.

  


Each time Draco opened them, it had seemed that time had passed. There was tea placed in front of him that he drank gratefully, small biscuits to nibble on, Lacey had long since fallen asleep after tearfully telling what had happened in the broken understanding of a child and now Harry just sat quietly in his chair, leaning back and resting his feet on on of the open drawers of the desk while he filed paperwork. In the background, he could hear a polonaise emitting from the wireless.

  


“I suppose you need me to give you an account of what happened,” he finally said. Harry looked up. 

  


“If you want,” He’d pushed the sleeves back on his jumper after a while, his right hand paused and still holding the biro, “I’ve pieced together most of it from Lacey’s account, but I’m more than happy to add what you want. The whole thing about Ron wanting me to get your statement was a bit of a lie.” His hands were thin but strong, with spindly wrists turning into forearms and then into the soft navy fabric. His eyes traced the path before settling back on Harry's bright green ones.

  


“I figured as much,” Draco drawled. “Cunning, you are not.”

  


“At least to people who know me as more than the Boy Who Lived and the Boy Who Defeated the Dark Lord,” Harry gave a wan smile. “More tea?”

  


“I should be getting back to work...” Harry shook his head slightly.

  


“I rung Zabini and let him know you were busy with the statement, he said to take the whole day.”

  


“Oh.” There wasn’t much to say to that, and the sort of kindness Harry was exhibiting towards him was throwing him off. “Then I suppose another cup couldn’t hurt...”

  


“Brill,” and without another word, the tea set floated over to where Draco had commandeered a corner of Harry’s desk and began pouring him a new cup, all while Harry continued writing. He stared in a little bit of shock at the action— wandless magic, such casual wandless magic, was practically unheard of. “Let me know if you need something stronger alright? Today was,” the grimace set on his lips as he finished the form, “One of the worser cases I’ve seen.”

  


Draco couldn’t help it. 

  


“Why are you _helping_ me?” Harry finally looked up. There was silence in the room as the polonaise ended and the smooth voice of the announcer reminded them of the upcoming piece.

  


“Why wouldn’t I help you?” Like it was that simple. The dull tattoo on his exposed forearm stung though he knew the tissue was long dead.

  


“It’s not— it’s not that simple,” Draco sighed, because even to describe the gulf of non-simplicity between them was too much. There was too much of everything, history, animosity, emotion, to be doing favors for one another. Harry tossed the biro on his desk and rubbed his eyes, tired, but he maintained his earlier statements.

  


“Sometimes it is. Sometimes things just are,” and he added after a moment, “Plus you’ve been giving me interior design advice so it balances out.”

  


Draco scoffed, crossing his arms, “I hardly think that picking some rugs and plates counts as a favor.”

  


“You could have ignored me,” Harry adds pointedly, crossing his own arms, more to mirror him than out of annoyance, “You could have tossed a few curses at me or gotten me banned from the store.”

  


“As if I have any authority in Patel’s Emporium.”

  


“Now you’re just dodging the question,” Harry laughed, getting himself another cup of tea, Draco looked away at the fire. It was time to change the subject. 

  


“What’s Greenwich University?”

  


Looking down at his sweatshirt, he looked back up with a small smile, “I took a few courses from Greenwich University and University East London to help prepare me to do this job, during my sabbatical.”

  


“A sabbatical?”

  


“It’s a fancy way for saying between when I was an auror and when I took this job.”

  


“Right,” Draco sipped his tea, “Which is where my sources of information were incorrect.” He nodded, watching as the completed paperwork flew in and out of the room, almost soothed by the age-old whisper of paper he remembered when he was small and would accompany his father. “And how exactly did you go from an auror to this?”

  


“So,” setting his papers back on his desk, Harry added milk to his tea, “After the war, Ron, Hermione and I were essentially guaranteed jobs as aurors. Ron and I took up the offer after the bulk of the trials, Hermione chose to finish school and once that was done, they would get married. So Ron and I started to work as aurors, after passing the rather perfunctory testing.” Harry paused to take a sip and set the mug down. The mug itself said Tate Modern along the side. Draco’s said London Zoo, he now noticed. “What the ministry didn’t really advertise at the time is that they had rather depleted numbers and there were still groups of death eaters roaming about the country on their last hurrah. So, with our experience, and a lack of competition, we went right to top.”

  


Draco nodded, unsure where he was going with this. The story had been all over the old Prophet, and was probably one of the last majors stories they had run, after the trials and while the reparations were being doled out. 

  


“At first, it was alright. It was very clear and, you would definitely guess this, but after the trials, it felt good to be doing something that actually was putting away bad people.” Draco rolled his eyes just very slightly and Harry grinned at him, more pleased than he'd seen him all day and he felt his face flush, “Exactly what I thought you’d do. It’s very on brand.”

  


Draco can’t help it, he half laughs at that, the tension broken. It’s been a long day. Harry gives him a wider smile, and they sort of stared at each other that way for a few moments. On the wireless, a Chopin piece was playing and in the room, the fire crackled.

  


Harry finally looked away, one hand going to wrap around his mug while he half hunched over his desk, as he continued.

  


“Anyway, we’d been working for a couple of months, when I started becoming...more paranoid, I guess you could call it. Ron had been transferred to his own team, we were both training new recruits. But I couldn’t shut it off, the job. The older aurors would talk about it sometimes, that after enough cases, you were always on. Sort of lent credibility to old Mad Eye, now that I think on it. And it wasn’t so bad at first. Until I’d nearly blasted some gent apart who’d snuck up on me to get an autograph.” He gave the mug a grimace, slowly rotating it in one rougher hand. _That hadn’t been in the papers_. “They’d hushed it up pretty fast. Not really something you want your 'Boy Who Defeated Voldemort' advertised as. And I figured I just needed time off and yet... And yet, the cases got worse. Once we’d rounded up all the worst ones, easy open and shut cases— your Herringborn, your Divitis, your McDonoughs. That was when we started getting things more in the gray area. People who’d lost limbs and given up their fight long ago. Scared teenagers. Unpaid reparations. Many victims and rarely did we get the bad guys. It was harder and harder to draw the line and leave it behind at the end of the day. Ron was spending more time with Hermione, and she’d just started her advocacy work. And Gin was busy with her team. And here I was... still fighting a war I’d thought I’d ended.” He swallowed hard. Draco knew he should stop this, this emoting of personal business, knew he should look away at the least, but he couldn’t. 

  


“By the end of the month, I couldn’t go anywhere and not see enemies and death eaters in every corner. I was arguing with everyone, fighting with my friends, with Gin, even with Mrs. Weasley,” he swallowed thickly as if he had just admitted the greatest treason. “With Gin it was worse—I would get angry and she would respond and then we would be screaming at each other and then something would explode as if I were still eleven and she’d spend the night at a friend’s place. She gave it a real go after but by the end of the month we were broken up and I was turning in my resignation.” 

  


Harry sighed. “So, Ron intercepted the resignation and instead convinced them to put me on a short term leave while I got myself sorted out. Hermione helped me draft the plan and got me a six month extension on that leave, to give me time to get it all ready, take a few classes and get the paperwork sorted. And at the end of it all, I ended up here,” He licked his lips, looking at his tea, “Here at the start of all things.”

  


“You’ve never said what you do, actually,” Draco finally said after the silence had gone on too long. Harry looked up, blinking a few times before realizing—

  


“Oh, I’m on the Magical Child Protective Services Department; well, department of one,” he smiled, “But I help children of witches and wizards after any dangerous or deadly incidents. Comfort them, make sure they’re safe, warm and dry and sent to a safe home. The pay is rubbish but it’s for a good cause.” 

  


Draco couldn’t help but stare, in utter disbelief. 

  


Harry’s smile faltered, “What?”

  


“I can’t believe it,” he slumped in his chair, “Bloody Saint Potter, here to help the children, savior of the wizarding world.” Harry laughed, his shoulders shaking with mirth. Draco even cracked an honest smile. The music played on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So what exactly is Magical Child Protective Services?** great question, I’ve just invented it. I know a lot of other fic comes up with these great ideas where Harry can’t be an auror anymore because of the PTSD from the war and all sorts of other things but I also think that his trauma goes further back that it’s important to remember he’s got all that other baggage from the Dursley’s. So essentially, he created a group (team of one) that handles the children left behind by magical violence/neglect. He’ll go to the location, gently talk down the kids from wherever they’re hiding, then bring them back to his office to rest while he contacts next of kin or finds a solution through the many wizarding families he’s come to know. Many of which are very happy to help the great Harry Potter. It’s very much like DCFS or CPS or specifically in the UK, the Department for Children, Schools and Families. It’s tough work but it’s very rewarding in a way that being an auror isn’t to him. He gets to save kids all the time, no one knows about what he does because he spends very little time on scene and he feels good about the progress he makes.
> 
>  **How was he able to do this?** just think: you’re the head of the auror department and your top, shiny bauble decides to quit one day. You would do anything to keep him. He brings you this zany idea and he’ll be technically on your payroll but doing his own thing, with very little impact, very little press and a lot of paperwork and all he wants is an office and the authority to do it. It’s a no brainer and it keeps the higher ups off your back about budget (look any time Harry was on a case you better bet they had to bring additional aurors to the scene to handle the press, before the Prophet takeover) and personnel and everyone wins.
> 
> In my opinion, Harry doesn’t want to be a hero as he wants to be a good guy. He wants to always be on the right side of things _because_ it’s right, which I think is a key difference between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Being an auror, there’s some gray area— you uphold the laws but based on the last wizarding war, the law isn’t always right and changes based on who’s in power. I’m not sure that Harry would be able to reconcile that and it would leave him a lot of angst. Being a public figure didn’t help either, because people would just sway and agree with whatever he said. So he decided to forge his own path and build something where he knew he would always be on the side of good. It’s like the best version of the ‘Think of the children’ fallacy.
> 
> Anyway, that’s my thoughts on the matter. At some point, the team will probably expand to a whole network of people like him and he’ll get to retire quietly, knowing he’s left something behind for the better and with zero press coverage until after he dies. Not a bad end for the Boy Who Lived. Bonus points for anyone who finds the LotR reference in these and double bonus points if you can get all the Harry Frodo parallels in the two.
> 
> (This also gave me a great idea for a sequel to this story, if folks like it)
> 
> I picked Larghetto for two reasons: one, the reason why Chopin wrote it was sad and beautiful and two, because The Truman Show changed me as a person and made me, briefly, feel things related to Jim Carrey and that piece was used in one of the [most beautiful parts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4o7ABXUVuHo) of the movie.
> 
> If you want to find me, I'm still on tumblr (we-re-always-alright) and the ask box is always open.  
> Songs For this Story:
> 
>   1. [Good News - Julien Baker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSgWPJy01es)
>   2. [Bottles and Cans - McCafferty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOf2FZqIEjE)
>   3. [One of One - duendita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gwYIrJsIys)
>   4. [I’m So Tired - Fugazi](https://youtu.be/_Nv11dYMsXQ)
>   5. [Killing Me Softly - Fugees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppz-cwLeqo)
>   6. [Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnLAa6_hB9A)
>   7. *[Polonaise B Flat Major, D 580 - Franz Schubert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJLtKxahqiM)* 
>   8. *[Piano Concerto No. 2 II. Larghetto - Frédéric Chopin](https://youtu.be/Q_dSI0gVbp0)* 
> 

> 
>   
>  [Full Playlist Link (Potential Spoilers)](https://open.spotify.com/user/sko9/playlist/3gN6SC5eALPNyKnI4dQU7r?si=MOw2GQuDQrid89mFUWy7FA)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone has read and kudosed and commented so far! I very much appreciate it :)

_Why do I recognize this piece?_ He wasn’t sure why he knew it but Draco finally tore his eyes away from the instruments playing themselves in the corner and back to his mother. It had become a habit of theirs, during his supervised visits with her while she served her own (longer) house arrest. 

  


The tea shop was roughly half way between their prior temporary residences, high enough class that they would have a special service for tea and once they were back, they simply just kept up the meeting. Particularly after the death of his father. 

  


Narcissa’s hair was more gray, streaking and aging beautifully, and her eyes had a few more wrinkles when she offered a rare smile, but for the most part she was unchanged. She still dressed the same, wore the same bergamot perfume from Italy, hugged him just as tightly when he left as if he were going to disappear once out of her sight. Every time it felt like the first time they’d left to take him to Hogwarts. They’d waited in the foyer for Father before heading to the station, his mother asking him if the house elves had packed this, or if he was planning on doing that when he arrived and he remembered being very cross to hide how terrified he was to be leaving. _“Draco, my dear, please remember to be safe, alright?”_ And then she had been hugging him, tight and close and warm and it smelt so strongly of that bergamot and the manor that he’d nearly burst into tears then as he stood there in shock. _How could I leave them behind?_ Then it was over and Father was ready to leave and the next chapter had started. Soon after that, she’d stopped hugging him tight before they left, preferring the gentle squeeze of his shoulder or the rubbing of his cheek or the brushing of his hair. They had never been a demonstrative family. 

  


But now she’d started again ever since the end of war and no matter how much he said otherwise, he always hugged her back. Life was too fleeting otherwise. 

  


“What did you say?”

  


“Draco,” his Mother started, pursing her lips in a common expression, “Darling, you seem…” _Off kilter? Confused? Obsessed?_ “Out of sorts. Are you sure you’re alright?”

  


“It’s just the anniversary,” he lied, half shrugging one shoulder while keeping his head level and gaze locked, a way of using a common gesture while maintaining the air of high class as he sipped his tea from the expensive porcelain wishing it were a slightly stained mug in his deepest heart, “It always puts me in a mood.”

  


She watched him very carefully, “I thought we agreed not to lie to one another.”

  


“ _You_ agreed, I just nodded,” he added back, setting the teacup in its saucer. The biscuits, dry as always, sat untouched in the center of the table. She nearly huffed but merely wiped the lipstick off the rim of her cup. Even now, she was bound by manners and duty and _breeding_ of all things.

  


They’d agreed to a lot of things when his father died, sitting side by side at the funeral where a winter storm blew around the magical wards. Even with the warming charms provided by the various lackey’s and well wishers it had been cold. Draco blamed it all on the emotions of the day. The Mother he remembered did too.

  


“It’s…” She started and stopped.

  


The silence hung like a weight around both their necks.

  


Their lives, so similar, so different, could be defined by that silence. By all the things they wanted to say but didn’t. By all the things that were implied or inference or hinted at. If silence was truly worthy of a dragon’s hoard, then they were rich ten times over.

  


“I want you to be happy,” her voice was a slight level above a whisper and despite her control, the tremor in her voice is there. _“All she cared about was whether her son and husband were going to survive the next minute,”_ came Harry’s voice, unbidden into his mind. It had been a month since the conversation in the office and all he could think about was that they were far beyond last names now and even then all he could think of was the stupid bloody trial.

  


Narcissa was always emotional proceeding winter. Something about approaching Christmas always set her off—the Malfoy’s had, historically, held a Christmas ball the day before, and a New Year’s one shortly after, and she was always the most generous with her smiles then, they seemed to fall like the flakes from the gray sky on days like that. And after the war, she’d been subdued, prevented from throwing anything more than a single gift for her son’s birthday in his direction, though they were separated only legally. And then, his father had been killed.

  


Shortly after the trials, where Draco and his mother had been sentenced to a year or two of house arrest, respectively, his father was sentenced to 7 years in prison, stripped of his magic. Azkaban had been ruined during the war—there was really no place for high ranking wizards after that, so instead they were all kept in a lower security facility. There a riot had broken out among the defanged wizards, and the details were fuzzy, but in his darkest, drunkest moments, the Malfoy heir assumed the worst: that the purist, blood-obsessed thinking of a toppled regime had held strong and lead to the death of his father. The official story was that he was stabbed in the neck in an alcove and while security wizards were subduing the rioters, he’d been missed and had bled out quickly. Had he survived, Lucius would have been irked by the offensively muggle-caused death he had suffered.

  


The feelings within him, particularly as they passed November and headed full tilt into December were always mixed. Part of him was deeply, secretly, relieved that he didn’t need to handle his father in his post-trail life. Maybe it was wrong to feel that way; mostly because he could vividly remember the time where his father’s opinion was the only thing that mattered. And that part of him that still reared its naive head would remind him what a terrible son he was. Then there was another part of him that was glad that his father, who had dragged him a child and his mother, however willing she was, into the Dark Lord’s most intimate plans, was gone. They could have easily died at any moment, but it never matter to Lucius because of things like _blood purity_ and _status_ and _good breeding_ , whatever that was. When he was like that, all Draco could compare him to, now with hindsight, a breeder of fine dogs, purposefully picking and punishing in kind, because he saw everyone as beneath him and not just muggleborns. And the strongest part of his emotions, the ones that held most sway, were a combination of sorrow of the rare happy moments that were now only memories and the larger sadness that he could no longer look to him and feel anything for fear of speaking ill of the dead.

  


In some ways, he pitied his Mother. He would look at her, struggling to speak her mind after years of conditioning and wonder if this was what she’d wanted. If she could have seen the path life would take stretching out in front of her, would she still pick Lucius out of love? Or out of duty?

  


Draco had never learned why his parents married. He had never asked. They could have loved each other. It could have been yet another pure blood marriage of convenience. But they were his and it left joy and a sour taste in his mouth.

  


So what could he say to her? She was trying to speak paragraphs in a sentence and he was trying to respond through occlumency and they were both avoiding the hidden curses laying between them. _When did a table feel so far apart._

  


_I want you to be happy._

  


He reached out and laid his left hand on hers, neatly avoiding his sleeve from going into the plate of untouched biscuits, “I know you do.” It wasn’t so much admittance of anything, the safest answer, while all his answers warred inside of him.

  


Usually this was the end of that. They would spend a few minutes in silence before changing the subject. But his Mother had other plans.

  


“Draco, my dearest, you’re not.”

  


Abstractly he knew that was true.

  


After the trial, he and his mother had abandoned the manor. The reparations had cost a pretty galleon, so they’d sold the contents and left the shell, waiting and empty, for the next person to uphold the weight of the name it carried. He’d moved to London to be closer to the firm and his mother had moved into the cottage he’d held during the occupation. She had been confined, previously, to her sister’s residence, who’d offered her home and her hearth to her sister, stating bluntly _“There’d been enough killing between blood, we’re not about to start now.”_ They’d looked so similar, last time he saw them, Andromeda’s gray hair coming in to match her sister’s after the death of her daughter and son-in-law, her grandson merely a babe.

  


“I’m fine,” he retracted his hand, ”You’re being paranoid, jumping at shadows again.” In his head he could hear: _“I couldn’t go anywhere and not see enemies and death eaters in every corner…”_ Even when he hadn’t seen the damn fool in a month, here he was, plagued by his voice. It was sixth year all over again.

  


“Draco—“

  


“Mother,” he said sharply, reminding himself of his father and the words felt like a knife wound. Her jaw clicked shut behind silent lips and they stared again at one another. She had often remarked how much he looked like his father, prior to the war. He wondered if she regretted the comparison now. 

  


_It’s a polonaise,_ his mind added absently. _The same one from Harry’s office._

  


Finally, Narcissa looked down and away and Draco retracted his hand. The rest of their allotted hour passed with only polite remark. Observers in the room, when glancing at them, would offhandedly remark how pale and still and smooth they were, comparing them to cold, perfected marble. How right they were. 

  


* * *

  


Draco hated coming here. The selection was poor, they were always playing odd music over the wireless ( _who even_ sang _about father’s like that_ ), the lights seemed to flicker worse in a way most muggle lights did and he always drew stares, even with his cloak over his arm like a large overcoat. He hated even more what always drew him there. The local Tesco. It was slumming it, even for muggles. 

  


It had become a habit during his year in captivity. When his monetary supplies were low, he’d have to avoid the Waitrose, with its bright and clean atmosphere and head to the slightly dingy but exceedingly popular for muggles Tesco located just off center facing the worser off part of town. 

  


And yet. 

  


And yet, their off brand scotch, tea and toast had gotten him through some dark times. Even at, looking at his watch, was roughly four past 4:30, he knew where he was headed. The voice in his head reminded him it was a bad idea and he tucked it away. He’d rather get good and drunk now and just deal with the consequences later when—

  


“Never thought, in all my years, that I would find a Malfoy in Tesco’s.” 

  


“For the love of Merlin,” he turned around, facing the smirking Harry Fucking Potter that apparently had joined him in the aisle, a loaf of bread tucked under his arm, “Are you _following_ me?” 

  


Harry just raised an eyebrow, “If I _were_ following you, would you think that I would start my search in the Tottenham Court Road Tescos? It’s not even a fully fledged one, just an express.” 

  


Draco glared at him, knowing full well he wasn’t the cause of his problems. Harry’s eyebrow raised a smidge higher before dropping. He was far too sober to be dealing with this.

  


“Just fuck off Potter,” he sighed, returning his attention to the tea that would soon make up his cheap, poorly tasting hot toddy, “I cannot be bothered to deal with you today.” He hoped that was enough to scare him off. 

  


Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Harry shift before coming closer, standing only a half meter away. 

  


“You want to go get a drink?”

  


Draco froze. Somewhere, in his head, the voice he buried told him it was a bad idea. The louder and snider part reminded him that this was the goal in the first place and that by inviting him, Harry was ensuring the first round was on him at the very least. That was a solid deal to make if he was planning on getting knackered on a Tuesday. 

  


“It’s only four in the afternoon.”

  


“Well, we fought in a _war_ , I think that merits some drinks during work hours.”

  


There was silence in the aisle.

  


“Sure,” he said against all of his senses, Harry having some preternatural ability to get through his defenses, because, in for a knut, in for a galleon, and he lost the stiff posture he was using, “Let’s get a drink.” 

  


* * *

  


They walk down the block to a muggle pub that calls itself the _Flying Horse_ and walk in. It’s nearly empty, just a few men in union work trousers quietly drinking beer in the corner, one very solemn woman drinking at the bar. A tourist family making noise in the other corner. 

  


Harry led them to the bar and they both sat down, Harry dressed in a sweater (gray) with a button up (red) below it and yet another pair of jeans, this time in better shape. Draco felt overdressed in his tailored vest (charcoal) and shirt (white) and trousers (also charcoal) but the allure of the drink outweighed it. The bartender swung by dropping down coasters advertising Guinness.

  


“What’ll it be?”

  


“Pint of lager and a double of whiskey. J&B,” Harry said, barely making eye contact. Around the bar, there dozens of mirrors and photos but only one, rolled in on a cart ‘Telly.’

  


“And you?” The bartender wasn’t as old as he thought on first glance, but his face _was_ weathered from years of working outdoors in the sun. Something about his expression reminded him of the older aurors, which made him realize that pausing too long would only feed the gentleman's attitude that he didn’t suffer fools.

  


“The same.” It seemed the safest option. The bartender nodded once and went to go fill their order, replacing the woman’s drink as well. 

  


They sat in silence, Harry glued to the Telly until he nudged Draco with his shoulder, “Doesn’t matter what pub you’re in, they all seem to always have reruns of _Coronation Street_ on after football.” 

  


“Is that a program?” Draco answered finally looking at the glowing box by the bar, leaning towards Harry, he could hear his hesitance in naming it. _Was that the right word?_ He couldn't remember what they'd called it in the Library. This was the closest they’d even been together for this long without trying to kill one another. He remembered a time in a bathroom, blood running red against the pale of his skin and Severus looming above him. There were no faults now, so long past.

  


“Yeah, they’re stories, you know, long running cast, unnecessary drama, been on since the dawn of time for housewives to watch after the kids are in bed.” 

  


“Hmm,” _how on earth did the muggles figure out how to shrink them down to that size?_

  


The bartender set down their drinks with a grunt. 

  


“Cheers mate,” Harry held up his whiskey once before knocking it back in a smooth motion. 

  


Draco eyed the whiskey and followed suit. It was a lot smoother than fire whiskey. 

  


And so they spent the next hour sitting, drinking lager, and commenting on _Coronation Street_ and daily news and everything in between, even after it had been shut off and rolled away.

  


It was...nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s your hot take for the day: I think pure blood wizards are _worse_ at Wandless magic and here’s why: magic is hereditary but when you’re intermarrying all the time, you ruin the gene pool much like the Hapsburgs. Yes, Magic should get stronger if you’re always marrying witches and wizards, BUT, and this is key, that assumes you’re marrying someone with magical blood and not from the same 20 magically blooded families, because it can’t just be _any_ pure blooded witch or wizard, it has to be the right one.  
> Therefore, they created all these super complex, delicate and dark Magic’s to supplement natural talent. It’s kind of like this: dogs can be bred for specific traits, giving us unique breeds. However, go too deep into it and all of the niche breeds have health problems abound and don’t last long. Mutts will outlive anything as far as I can tell and it’s the same with Wizards. Pure bloods created this class of hereditary, monetary status but the natural talent, the natural abilities were squelched. So yeah: when you breed out instinct, you lose that ease of use.  
> Anyway, that’s my opinion and I’m sticking with it.  
> Also I don't get soap operas and couldn't figure out when and what reruns come on so I just picked a safe one. It's artistic liberty???  
> Also also, apologies to any folks who work in grocery stores/convenience stores as Harry most definitely left the bread in the tea aisle and for that I am sorry.
> 
> If you want to find me, I'm still on tumblr (we-re-always-alright) and the ask box is always open.  
> Songs For this Story:
> 
>   1. [Good News - Julien Baker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSgWPJy01es)
>   2. [Bottles and Cans - McCafferty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOf2FZqIEjE)
>   3. [One of One - duendita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gwYIrJsIys)
>   4. [I’m So Tired - Fugazi](https://youtu.be/_Nv11dYMsXQ)
>   5. [Killing Me Softly - Fugees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppz-cwLeqo)
>   6. [Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnLAa6_hB9A)
>   7. [Polonaise B Flat Major, D 580 - Franz Schubert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJLtKxahqiM)
>   8. [Piano Concerto No. 2 II. Larghetto - Frédéric Chopin](https://youtu.be/Q_dSI0gVbp0)
>   9. *[Father of Mine - Everclear](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkcbxjWG9Mc)* 
>   10. *[My Idea of Fun - Wingnut Dishwashers Union](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AagXbraxPK0)* 
>   11. *[I’m not a good person - Pat the Bunny](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMyDK3VHYPw)* 
> 

> 
>   
>    
>  [Full Playlist Link (Potential Spoilers)](https://open.spotify.com/user/sko9/playlist/3gN6SC5eALPNyKnI4dQU7r?si=MOw2GQuDQrid89mFUWy7FA)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks much to everyone who has read and enjoyed this!!!

After that, over a few months, it became an ad hoc routine of theirs. One of them would owl the other. Or send a message via floo. Or they’d catch each other’s eyes after long hard cases, somehow finding each other in the same circles of houses. Or Harry would end up in the spices section of the Tescos or Harry would find him standing in front of the bargain teas and with a jut of the chin they’d head to the pub. Sometimes they would talk, usually only about trivial, annoying stuff, pressed close enough together at the bar that that when Harry would laugh as Draco gestured, he could feel it along his left arm. 

  


It felt good. Settling. And it was terrifying. 

  


But it kept happening. He felt like he was being stalked by Harry and that he was stalking Harry in turn, nothing like their sixth year but everything like it, the intensity of the emotions. It wasn’t _intentional,_ per say, just that they seemed to gravitate towards one another.

  


Maybe this was what Pansy had told him, that certain people were destined to always orbit around one another. Sometimes colliding, sometimes hovering near and sometimes entering perfect, entrancing, celestial circles around one another. “ _Maybe you’re just settling into whatever cosmic force is between you,_ “ she told him on the rare monthly (expensive) floo call they had. She’s become a bit batty after moving to Paris and becoming a seer to muggles, living her days in the Latin quarter and wearing black lipstick; but her opinions, as always, were more truthful than anything. She felt no need to lie, preferring to always tell some shade of the truth, which worked exceptionally well in her job. People were always looking for the news that they wanted to hear but lacked the strength to admit. 

  


If Pansy could do that, following her most primal talents, and make a few euros in the process then more power to her. 

  


This…truce they had, lasted roughly three months since the first time they’d gone out for drinks. They’d met up a dozen times between the first day and now and at this point, Draco was reluctant but assured to admit that they were some form of friends. An odd couple for sure, but definitely some form of friends.

  


Which is why when Draco is waiting outside the pub (thinking all the while, and for the umpteenth time, that the _Flying Horse_ was far too ironic) when Harry shows up, 15 minutes late.

  


15 minutes late and with Weasley.

  


Weasley hadn’t changed much in the years since the war—his red hair still a shock, his height still a good few centimeters higher than he was, his limbs still gangly and long, with mitts for hands that had made him a decent keeper once he’s gotten over his fear. Tonight, however, he was breaking the Hogwarts illusion, with his solid gold wedding ring flashing in the streetlights, the healing cut along his eyebrow, the dust covering his modest, but newly purchased and well fitting robes. The spindly mitts for hands seemed to have expanded and now matched his height and weight accordingly. 

  


Draco wasn’t sure what to feel, so he resorted to what he knew, the safe comfortable shell he’d spent years cultivating. He opened his mouth to make a cutting remark but Weasley, apparently, beat him to it. _Times had changed._

  


“ _This_ is who you’ve been seeing after work?” He asked incredulously, the tiredness apparent in his voice dampening the scorn and distrust that normally lived there.

  


“Not _always,_ ” Harry said with an exasperated tone, brown cheeks flushing in the dim street in a way that Draco could tell only because he’d been spending so much time with him that it was so much more apparent. He was dressed, as always, in a shirt, below a ‘flannel,’ as the weather had been turning warmer, and his by this point uniform jeans. His common uniform from work as much as Weasley's robes were his. He vaguely remembered how Harry’s jeans used to always be a size to big, or threadbare, or old, when they were younger. “Just, you know, when we _feel_ like it.”

  


“Oh it’s _we_ , now?”

  


“Fuck off,” Harry gave him a shove before turning fully to Draco, his green eyes in the soft light reminding him of being held in a serpents enchanting gaze, “Sorry Draco,” in the background, Weasley repeated ‘Draco’ in a strangled tone, “But I promised Ron after this case.”

  


His life was far too strange. Strange enough that he didn’t even protest, knowing that the night alone would be trying enough, due to the sheer amount of oddities happening.

  


“It’s alright.”

  


“Yeah?” Harry brightened, mouth twisting into a grin, one he almost always wore on the good days, because he somehow knew that Draco’s own mouth would twist in a similar way after awhile. His own traitorous facial muscles gave a twitch.

  


“I suppose, it is _your_ event.” Draco corrected, a modicum of decency and manners trying to rear up.

  


“ _Our_ event,” Harry corrected back, before nudging Weasley out of his stupor. Draco shrugged in response. It was hard to be as open when there was an audience. _And when had that happened…_

  


“Right, well, let’s go have a pint—”

  


“Wait,” Weasley interjected, removing his robes to reveal a Weasley Jumper and less decent jeans than Harry’s (by Draco's measure), “I can’t have a pint—it has to be wine.”

  


“Wine?” Weasley glared at him, likely out of muscle memory. Oh _wait_ that was him speaking, lovely.

  


“Wine.” He reiterated firmly, chin jutting out as if to challenge him, “If it’s wine, then ‘Mione will think we were at dinner instead of getting plastered at a bar.” Draco could only raise an eyebrow in response but before he could make a cutting remark, Harry added in, “I think that’s fine with me. Draco?”

  


Draco nodded slowly, eyebrows back to their normal level of shock. Not speaking as much seemed to be working so far, even though he desperately wished to comment on Harry’s lacksidasical hair (as was standard) and the rips in Weasley’s jeans (which was standard five bloody years ago.) He must have entered some alternate, highly advanced pocket dimension nine months ago where Harry Potter was nice, where Ronald Weasley didn’t instantly punch him in the nose upon viewing and where they just sort of went to pubs as if that were a thing that people did. 

  


Patel’s Emporium was clearly capable of great and powerful things. 

  


But here they were now, Draco sat next to Harry and adjacent to Weasley at one of the high topped tables, all facing the bar and the shut off 'Telly', waiting for Ron to return the double of whiskey and...red wine. And since when has their usual order become a pattern? Since when had he come to expect and look forward to the whiskey and lager and the low, subtle mood in the pub? Even the bartender eyed them with their new additions warily. When did _Draco Malfoy_ become part of a pattern? 

  


Whether or not he wanted to be, he was, which is why thirty minutes later, he was still there.

  


By now, Weasley was tipsy, on his third glass and Harry was smiling a lot more and adding in his usual insightful comments that were often just for him and each time Weasley would let out a louder than average laugh and Draco was stuck there stiff as a board. Sure he was following along with the conversation but he wasn’t ready to add anything. The _Flying Horse_ had become a bit of a safe area the way Patel’s had, a place where he wasn’t so unmoored. He finished another glass of red wine and drifted back into the conversation.

  


“—worse than yours. Honestly, there should be a penmanship quality part of the auror training program,” Weasley gestured quite a bit compared to Harry, though usually with a wine glass, a napkin, a handful of bar nuts, “So I told Billingsly _exactly_ where he could shove his report. You should have seen the look on his face!” He crowed, finishing off his glass as well and setting it next to Draco’s for whoever was in charge for the next round. Likely Harry as it was his turn again. 

  


Harry just shakes his head, leaning back slightly out of habit before remembering he was on a stool, as he always did, “I can’t believe he still works there.”

  


“The current working theory,” which was such Auror speak that Draco inwardly rolled his eyes, as often as Harry used that phrase. Though, Harry smirked at him, catching the joke, before focusing again on Weasley, making Draco flush with unspoken praise, “Is that he’s having a leg over with one of the secretary’s who handles the disciplinary records, otherwise how _would_ he still be here.”

  


“If that _were_ true then you’d think he’d look a bit happier.” 

  


Harry and Weasley both turned towards Draco. Because it was Draco who had said that. 

  


_Fuck._

  


But he was surprised again because Harry snorted, shaking his head while Weasley lets out another bark of laughter. 

  


“You would think,” he segues, launching into another, related story but all Draco notices is the small, tentative smile that he’d first seen in the rug aisle. Maybe tonight wasn’t a total loss. 

  


“—So I said to her, Mione, we don’t _need_ matching glasses, and she’s all, it’s the _principle_ of it, it’s the style, which you _don’t_ have, and I was all, of course I have style,” he pauses again to eat more bar nuts, and Draco’s mouth moves on its own—

  


“Weasley, you wouldn’t know style if it showed up on your front step in a golden crown, with loud fanfare and calling itself the Queen,” and Draco instantly clammed up. The wine had clearly gone to his head and _this_ was most certainly going to be how he ended up on his back with a new bruise across his face and potentially a broken nose.

  


And yet...

  


Weasley let out another surprised laugh as Harry wheezed next to him, nearly choking on his fast laughter as he stood up, “You’re ridiculous, not all of us are interior design experts,” then he bobbed his head in the usual fashion, said “Loo,” by way of explanation before walking off in a long legged lope that was familiar.

  


Draco was alone with Weasley who had settled down in his laughter and was now staring at him, looking as though he were trying to think. Perish the thought.

  


“You know,” Weasley started. And stopped, looking at him again with that queer look. 

  


Draco opened his mouth to say something when Weasley started again, “You know, Malfoy,” he said, rolling the words in his mouth like stones in a tin cup, “When Harry told me who we were going out with tonight, I was...” he trailed off again, tilting his head the other way. Maybe he was more drunk than tipsy. 

  


“Angry?” Draco supplied, tired of hanging on. 

  


“At first. And annoyed. Out of every git in the world, I believe was what I said.” Gregarious stories aside, Weasley seemed to have grown a better grasp on the English language, “And believe me, for all the odd and absurd shite that Harry has gotten me into over the years, this is the only _reasonably_ weird, almost _mundane_ thing. But then I looked at Harry and remembered and decided if _you_ were the secret person he was having a drink with, if _you_ were the person who was helping him _settle_ , then you couldn’t be entirely bad.” He took a second to tap his fingers on the table, golden ring sitting heavy on his finger. “And if you aren’t entirely bad, then that means,” he added, and it was plain to see that Weasley had learned quite a bit about deduction through his work, he paused for another tap-tap-tap, “Then that means that hating you won’t improve anything further.”

  


He couldn’t help but admire, in a way, Weasley’s reasoning. There was a lot to unpack, things he should be more concerned about in the words he said, but all of that was overshadowed by some feeling he couldn’t describe. Was it relief? Pride? Something earned? There’s wasn’t time to come up with much better. 

  


“If you say,” Draco drawled, trying to be as dry as possible, “That this is the start of a beautiful friendship...”

  


Weasley laughed again, loud and relaxed. How strange things were. 

  


“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grinned, less aggressively than before, “But you’re not so bad Malfoy.”

  


He paused again, remembering a few months ago when he was at a similar crossroads, and decided what to say.

  


“Likewise, Weasley.”

  


* * *

  


If you had told Draco Malfoy from sixth form that at one point, he and golden boy Harry Potter would be supporting an absolutely smashed Ron Weasley up the front stairs of the flat that he shared with his wife, he would have laughed you out of the room, out of the building and possibly out of the country. 

  


However, that wouldn’t change the fact that he is, in fact, doing just that, while Weasley comments on everything around them, frying pan sized hands gesturing wildly. 

  


“Can you _believe_ it mates? My own bloody place,” he enthused, swaying towards Harry’s side and pulling Draco with him. 

  


“Ron—“

  


“Oh _Merlin_ —“ They teetered for a second, his heart stopping as he realized there was only a scant few feet between his head and the tile floor, but by the grace of some god, stayed upright. 

  


Ronald Weasley, the absolute nutter, only laughs. 

  


“I swear to god. Truce or not. I’m killing him,” Draco mutters. 

  


Harry forced out a laugh as they continue their climb, “You’ll have to get in line behind Hermione and me.” 

  


And there’s a tapping of a slippered foot to accompany that statement, almost on cue. With some effort, he waits until they’ve surmounted the last step to the landing before looking up, dodging yet another gesture. 

  


Unlike Weasley, who had seemed to simply grow into a larger version of his school self, Hermione Weasley-Granger has changed rather a lot. Her hair, still bushy as ever, was shorter, framing her rounded face, showing her long neck and making her umber skin luminescent with how it curled around, even in the bright hall lights. Her eyes were only slightly furious under her arched brows, her body more filled out as if her younger self were a sketch of the powerful witch she would become, and he felt his nose wince remembering the pain of her punch and that she’d never needed her wand to cause damage. Damage that she clearly felt like inflicting, judging by how her eyes narrowed at the three of them. 

  


“Hey Hermione,” Harry said cheerfully. Draco shot him a look. Clearly drinking made the chosen one even more stupidly suicidal. Weasley simply just raised his hands higher.

  


“Mione, light of my life, the model by which I drive my moral compass—“

  


“Just _go_ , you’re being ridiculous.” She cut him off, her cheeks slightly darker. “Thanks for returning him home, no doubt he would have splinched himself _yet again_ —“

  


“Hey, there were extremely— externally—“

  


“Extenuating,” Draco corrected, losing his patience with the drunk giant next to him.

  


“Right, _that_ , circumstances, you can’t keep holding the snatchers over my head—“

  


“Or you could just go to bed,” Harry added, giving him a push.

  


“Or I,” Weasley said, kissing the top of Granger’s head, “Could just go to bed and wait for you.”

  


The furious expression wavers, and she tucks her hair behind her ear, tiny engagement ring sparkling next to the plain gold band, and finally heaves a sigh, shaking her head. 

  


“Boys, _honestly_.”

  


“Night Harry, Malfoy,” Weasley adds breezily before lumbering into the flat, and Weasley-Granger rolls her eyes and says simply, “Thank you for making sure he got home safe.” 

  


“No trouble at all,” Harry answers for them, stepping closer to Draco to fill the gap left by Weasley, “It was a rough day and I invited him so only fair we help him home.” She nods, with a hum, watching the two of them, seeming to analyze their very nature. He stood a little taller. 

  


“Make sure you pick up a gift for George’s birthday next week, Good Night.” And then, because his life couldn’t be possibly weirder, she nods once to _both_ of them, making direct eye contact each time, before turning around and going inside. 

  


But Harry brushes this off, sighing with a chuckle and heading downstairs, Draco close behind him. As they stepped out into the night air, he had to say something. 

  


“He really thought she would think we were having dinner? Brightest witch of our generation and he’s trying to pull the wool over with a flimsy lie like that.”

  


Harry’s laughter next to him was warm and close. They kept walking, even though they were in a wizarding neighborhood and could part at any time. “Sorry I sprung this on you.”

  


Draco shrugged, things could be worse. 

  


“I think he does it because it makes her laugh, mostly,” he adds, as they fall into step, looking down briefly at his trainers and Draco’s shined oxfords, “Love’s weird like that.”

  


Draco chuckles, thinking back to the bar, and says, “You know, Weasley said that this was the least reasonably weird thing you’ve done to date.”

  


“Reasonably weird,” Harry said in response, “I think that’s a fair assessment and a rather good phrase. I think it works well for us.” Draco nodded, heart hammering oddly at the thought that they were _us_ and not _you and I._ What was wrong with him.

  


“He also said a few other things.” Harry groaned up towards the sky, slowing down slightly.

  


“What did he say? I _told_ him to be cool about this.”

  


“He actually said more about you than anything else,” he slowed to a stop a few steps ahead of him, turning back to look at him, “Something about me helping you settle and that if that’s what I could help you with, he was alright with the reasonably weird things going on.”

  


Harry stopped and looked at him, bright streetlight above them as they locked eyes.

  


“Well then.” His face split into a grin, bright white teeth against copper skin.

  


_Well then indeed_ , Draco thought absently, as he grinned to match it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Why is Ron being so nice?** Imagine this: you’ve survived a war with your best friends intact. Your family is mostly alive. Sometimes, the people you’ve lost make your heart hurt so much, it’s surely broken and you feel angry but there’s Harry with the crooked smile and there’s Hermione with her dazzling brilliance and there’s your good and honest job and your small but entirely own place and things are okay, in the end.  
> And then suddenly everything isn’t. Harry starts arguing with you, angry like he was the year they’d made Dumbledore’s Army, moody and secretive and lashing out at _Mum_ even and you don’t know how to talk to him. Your _best friend_ in the whole world and you still can’t speak when you watch your sister and him have silent arguments or you see him get choked up over Teddy or you watch him at his desk across from yours staring a thousand miles away. So you put on a brave face and hope it’ll be okay, that Harry will come back to you.  
> But he doesn’t. Even after Harry panics at the engagement party and disappears to go stand in the freezing rain for hours, or after you cover up the bloke who nearly died for an autograph or your own fucking _sister_ who is walking around and _daring_ you to say anything. You don’t know how to tell him it’ll be okay because you don’t know what to do. And you still don’t know what to do when the resignation papers come in so you burn them, worried that if Harry loses this, he’ll be gone for good.  
> But then Harry finally _finally_ breaks down in what 'Mione calls _catharsis_. And it’s not perfect, not by a long stretch, but you know now you won’t be visiting the grave of Harry James Potter the same way you stood over Fred’s and Lupin’s and a hundred others any time soon and that’s well worth it. You’d do anything for the boy who bought you a sweet cart and made you feel special all those years ago. So you encourage him, exactly like you and Mione practiced. You remind him of things that are implied when it comes to family, like it says in the pamphlet. And when he nervously tells you who and why he’s been meeting at the pub, you swallow your burst of anger and the stubborn lump of pride sticking in your throat and you promise to be fair, so the boy on the train, now a grown man, will trust you with all his secrets again.  
> And _that’s_ why they don’t get into a fist fight on sight at the pub. 
> 
> If you want to find me, I'm still on tumblr (we-re-always-alright) and the ask box is always open.  
> Songs For this Story:
> 
>   1. [Good News - Julien Baker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSgWPJy01es)
>   2. [Bottles and Cans - McCafferty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOf2FZqIEjE)
>   3. [One of One - duendita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gwYIrJsIys)
>   4. [I’m So Tired - Fugazi](https://youtu.be/_Nv11dYMsXQ)
>   5. [Killing Me Softly - Fugees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppz-cwLeqo)
>   6. [Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnLAa6_hB9A)
>   7. [Polonaise B Flat Major, D 580 - Franz Schubert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJLtKxahqiM)
>   8. [Piano Concerto No. 2 II. Larghetto - Frédéric Chopin](https://youtu.be/Q_dSI0gVbp0)
>   9. [Father of Mine - Everclear](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkcbxjWG9Mc)
>   10. [My Idea of Fun - Wingnut Dishwashers Union](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AagXbraxPK0)
>   11. [I’m not a good person - Pat the Bunny](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMyDK3VHYPw)
>   12. *[Conversations with the Self Centered - Apes of the State](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6kRU6fXzHEo)* 
>   13. *[Drunk Again - Reel Big Fish](https://youtu.be/p3MM0S4JreQ)* 
> 

> 
>   
>  [Full Playlist Link (Potential Spoilers)](https://open.spotify.com/user/sko9/playlist/3gN6SC5eALPNyKnI4dQU7r?si=MOw2GQuDQrid89mFUWy7FA)


	7. Chapter 7

Much like the previous pattern, soon they had a new, adjacent one that snuck up on him.

  


Every couple of weeks, Weasley, who was, at this point Ronald in the same sort of way Potter was now Harry, only different, would join Harry and Draco at the pub. They would usually drink pints of lager, still, only switching to wine after particularly trying cases.

  


Then they (Draco and Harry, never Ronald) started having lunch every now and then, even on days when there were no cases to be had. And owling when they could, starting with short notes and progressing to letters. It was nice, being friends with Harry, who would write medium length letters in cramped print handwriting, compared to Draco’s looping cursive, formed with years of practice. But they never ran out of things to say, surprisingly. And he found the time passing faster. 

  


He told Harry about a lot of things—how he’d started reading during his imprisonment and what he read and what he thought about the books. Sometimes those conversations would spill into their lunches or their pub drinks when Ronald wasn’t there. Harry told him about ’his’ kids, who was succeeding and who needed more support, the work he was doing to save them. Sometimes Draco would make a recommendation on a family who could help. He told him about how he’d joined Blaise’s firm after months of needling by the other Slytherin, a story that had left Harry in stitches, remarking how he’d have to thank Zabini one day for the laughter. It was really nice, coming home to see the standard ministry owl sitting there, waiting for a treat, or watching Harry walk up to the pub, a moment or two late as always.

  


Until it was right before the anniversary of his father’s death and amidst the happiness of daily life, he slammed right into a wall of sadness and grief, a swath of emotions that left him angrier than he’d ever been. It’d been _years_.

  


What was wrong with him?

  


He _knew_ that he shouldn’t have accepted the invitation to go out, that he had been annoyed with his mother earlier and that he could feel everything simmering under his skin, a vast and violent ocean. He _knew_ that the case today had ended in St. Mungo’s, with Harry’s hand holding a much smaller one, and that Harry would be defensive and upset. He _knew_ that Ronald would be there, to help out Harry, and that his casual barb about Draco’s father was a sleaze or a slime ball or something equally dumb was _expected_ but he couldn’t stop the rage bubbling up, the pain and anger seeping out from where it normally sat.

  


“Fuck _off_ , you dirty little Weasel.” 

  


“Hey,” Harry said, annoyance creeping into his tone as they stood outside of the pub with the _stupidest_ name in all of London, Ronald raising both eyebrows, “Draco, that was uncalled for.” Draco could hear the voice in his head, the sensible one, drowned out by the ocean roaring in his ears.

  


“Every time it’s the same dumb comment—I wonder, how on _earth_ does your wife put up with your primitive thoughts? Or do you solely communicate by finger painting?” Ronald looked mildly impressed—they’d always handled things though sly comments and verbal sparring but Harry just looked angry.

  


“Draco, what’s your problem? Why are you acting like…” He paused, looking for the words that Draco knew he wanted and was trying to substitute. Even now, that was how Harry still categorized him. Months of whatever this was, wasted. He wasn’t sure what hurt more.

  


“Like _what?_ A Death Eater? Like my _slimy_ father?” And he glared at Weasley at that and Harry puffed up, stepping up to him, snarling back.

  


“He didn’t mean it—Ron tell him.”

  


But Weasley was already stepping back, his giant hands up to ward off the fight, mumbling something about _he’s_ your _boy-friend-mate, I’m staying out of this._ Harry turned back to argue but Draco was already stalking off in the opposite direction, throwing up two fingers in defiance over his shoulder, not wanting to parse out whatever Weasley was being enigmatic about again. He wasn’t _quite_ sure what it meant, but he’d seen enough arguments at the pub between muggles to know the gesture wasn’t a kind one.

  


“ _Hey!_ ” Harry caught up to him but that only made Draco increase his pace, his eyes firmly focused on the ground as his vision swam a bit at the edges. If he started bloody _crying_ , he would simply have to become a hermit and live the rest of the days in the shell of the manor and work his way towards being a ghost. “Malfoy _stop._ ”

  


Draco ignored him, turning to head down the lane, towards the nearest apparition point, when Harry reached out with a firm grip and stopped him, “Draco I said _stop._ “

  


“Why should I?!” He whirled around, hissing the next part in his stupid savior face like the snake he was, Harry’s face shocked, “So you can tell me how sorry you are that I’m a murderous death eater like my father? How you regret testifying? How you don’t understand why I can’t be good? How I deserve to die like he did? Why didn’t you just leave me alone!?” Harry didn’t look angry anymore. Just panicked.

  


“Draco—”

  


“Save it for someone who wants to hear it.” He tried to wrench his arm away but it seemed to only make Harry hold on tighter. Even through his robes he could feel how warm he always was. “Let go.”

  


“No.”

  


“Potter—”

  


“I’m not letting you go—that was rude to Ron but—” His eyes softened, just slightly and Draco felt his heart seize in his chest. He didn’t want pity. “I get why you’re angry but you can’t just leave.” He kept his hold but loosened his grip slightly, and the blond was about to wrench free when Harry continued, ”Please.”

  


Draco Malfoy looked at him, heard how desperate his please had sounded, and stopped struggling entirely.

  


It was Harry’s turn to stare, eye contact a familiar and ensnaring thing by now. And then he looked away, determined, as if the darkness held all the answers. Draco waited. And waited. 

  


“I stopped.”

  


“I know.” Harry licked his lips, they were red in the chill air. “Draco… I’m sorry about your father. I don’t think you’re like him at all and I definitely _don’t_ want you dead, in any form.” The air felt tight around them, as if it might compress him into a solid core of pain and anger. He didn’t want apologies, he just wanted out. What could anyone say? Apparently Harry knew, because he continued. 

  


“I’m not saying that to be nice, honest, I...” He hesitated, looking back at Draco, “You remember what I told you about? In my office in April?” He said, rapidly. As if to prove a point, he nodded in response of his own question. “Then you remember that I tried to quit being an auror. About how I was still fighting a war that was over and that I couldn’t relax and that it was tearing me apart at the seams?”

  


He didn’t really wait for Draco to nod, preferring to nod to himself and steamroll on, as though if he paused for too long, he’d lose his nerve, “How I was angry and reckless, waiting for something stupid to kill me so I could _finally sleep_ , and I’d sent in my resignation but they hadn’t done anything about it and we were at Luna’s—she’d just bought the New Prophet, and we were on her balcony talking about the bloody _stars_ of all things and I was ready to go home and face the nightmares again and she kept giving me these sad looks and she told me it was alright to stop fighting now.” He inhaled again, letting it out with barely a tremor. “That was all she said. That it was safe to stop fighting now, Harry, you’re safe now and I don’t remember much of that night aside from that. According to Hermione, I completely broke down and _sobbed_ on Luna’s shoulder. I just—” He cut himself off, forcing his hands to unclench from where he was gripping Draco’s shoulders. _What did this have to do with his father…_

  


“If I was done with fighting, then… Then what would be left of Harry Potter? I shut myself up after that, bought my flat and stayed in. Only let Ron and Hermione know where I was. Didn’t even force myself to go out and eat. It was like all the fight had left me and I didn’t even know what to do without it. I was a soldier without a war and a boy without a family and a man without a purpose and I thought I’d just waste away there.” Harry said, a hint of shame in his voice as he trailed off.

  


It was quiet around them, just the sound of rustling trees and chill breezes rolling through London.

  


It seemed that he had two options before him, could see the forking paths in front of him stretching into the dark horizon. He could brush it off, say something somewhat kind, like “Well I’m glad you decided to shower _before_ stalking me, or I would have ended up a cannibal’s dinner,” or something like that and he knew Harry would never talk about it with him again. They could avoid it for the rest of their lives. Or he could push deeper.

  


Draco had to know.

  


“How does this relate to me?”

  


Hardy stared at him, and with how close they were, it was easy to see the flecks of warm, golden hazel hidden in the green of his eyes. 

  


“I need to show you something, to show you why...” They didn’t break eye contact. “Come to my place, please?” He sounded desperate, as if Draco wasn’t already far too involved in this, as if it were even an option. 

  


“Alright.”

  


Harry blinked, knocked out of staring with surprise, “Alright?” 

  


“ _Yes_ , I will follow you back to your place for what better be a good explanation.” When had they gotten so close? Draco crossed his arms to give them some familiar distance. 

  


“I hope it will be,” he replied, a bitter tinge to his words. 

  


He held out his arm for Draco and after hesitating, in one smooth motion, he placed his hand on his and they were sucked away with a pop.

  


There was only the soft rustle of crisp leaves to show that they’d been there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was tempted not to include Ghost Town on this list but the words got me yet again!!!  
> My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is still amazing, on of my favorite albums and short films of all time (Runaway slayed me in 2010 and I still haven’t recovered) and he’s gone kind of way downhill for me since then, but Ghost Town is just a perfect track. I cut it out at the last minute but I wanted to add this in, as the lines were just too poignant:
> 
> _I let it all go (go), of everything that I know, yeah_
> 
> _Of everything that I know, yeah_
> 
> _And nothing hurts anymore, I feel kinda free_
> 
> _We're still the kids we used to be, yeah, yeah_
> 
> _I put my hand on the stove, to see if I still bleed_  
>  Like damn bitch, me too.  
> If you want to find me, I'm still on tumblr (we-re-always-alright) and the ask box is always open.
> 
> Songs For this Story:
> 
>   1. [Good News - Julien Baker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSgWPJy01es)
>   2. [Bottles and Cans - McCafferty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOf2FZqIEjE)
>   3. [One of One - duendita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gwYIrJsIys)
>   4. [I’m So Tired - Fugazi](https://youtu.be/_Nv11dYMsXQ)
>   5. [Killing Me Softly - Fugees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppz-cwLeqo)
>   6. [Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnLAa6_hB9A)
>   7. [Polonaise B Flat Major, D 580 - Franz Schubert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJLtKxahqiM)
>   8. [Piano Concerto No. 2 II. Larghetto - Frédéric Chopin](https://youtu.be/Q_dSI0gVbp0)
>   9. [Father of Mine - Everclear](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkcbxjWG9Mc)
>   10. [My Idea of Fun - Wingnut Dishwashers Union](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AagXbraxPK0)
>   11. [I’m not a good person - Pat the Bunny](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMyDK3VHYPw)
>   12. [Conversations with the Self Centered - Apes of the State](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6kRU6fXzHEo)
>   13. [Drunk Again - Reel Big Fish](https://youtu.be/p3MM0S4JreQ)
>   14. *[Holy - Frightened Rabbit](https://youtu.be/Ul1_I9FvSgY)* 
>   15. *[I Follow Rivers - Lykke Li](https://youtu.be/Ww38Bz7mBGg)* 
> 

> 
>   
>  [Full Playlist Link (Potential Spoilers)](https://open.spotify.com/user/sko9/playlist/3gN6SC5eALPNyKnI4dQU7r?si=MOw2GQuDQrid89mFUWy7FA)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor discussion of past abuse. You've been warned!

The home of Harry Potter was much less ostentatious than the petty part of him expected. 

  


Instead of a large mansion secluded from wizarding and muggle society, it was a modest three flat on a quiet residential street. It was almost pedestrian how calm and muggle the street was; that the entire area seemed to be hushed but in a natural and peaceful way. It was outside of any war, muggle or wizard, and it would seem that it had been that way for a long while. 

  


Draco looked up and down the street with minor suspicion. 

  


As if answering his thoughts, Harry said, “It’s always like this, peaceful, you know.”

  


“I wasn’t sure places like this still existed in London.” Why was he talking?

  


“Me too. Until I found this. Made it an easy decision to move here.” 

  


They stood in silence for a minute, looking at the content row of buildings.

  


“Well. Let’s press on,” Harry said, an arm at Draco’s elbow, as if he were worried that he would leave, as they headed into the building and up to the top floor. The key opened the door smoothly and then they were inside and the lights went on with a flick. 

  


It was...

  


Bare. 

  


Painfully, exceedingly bare. 

  


“Did you just move in...?” Draco cautiously stepped forward, looking at the tiny table with one chair, the empty drawing room devoid of anything, the office, with its distressed glass French doors and utilitarian desk, with the same empty feeling to it. He remembered what Harry had told him, almost a year ago, about how it was hardly a palace. This was hardly a flat. The kitchen was empty, not even dishes in the rack, and down the slight hall, the bathroom across from the bedroom where the mattress sat on the floor in the dim light from the hall. His footsteps echoed and outside the moon shined. The walls were the plain white of sold property and the floors were a little dusty and it was so _so_ achingly bare.

  


“Not...exactly...”

  


Draco turned around, still in his shined oxfords and looked at Harry. There was discomfort in every lean line of his body. 

  


“How long?”

  


“A year, and a half,” he winced and Draco felt as shocked as he probably looked. But looking at him, he knew that needling him was the wrong way to handle this news and, knowing Granger, he probably got that enough as it was. 

  


“You’re far from poor...”

  


“Tell me about it,” Harry let out a huff that normally would be a laugh, “It’s weird, having all that money.” He wisely said nothing. Money had been a given in his life, and even without that, the status of the name he bore. 

  


There was an extended silence. Draco traced the bookshelves which were empty except for a sloppily organized set of six books on child psychology, fresh paint over wood catching on the sensitive pads of his fingers. He wonders if Harry has callouses and if they catch on the shelves or if they glide past, leaving no trace. 

  


“So,” He looked back at the other man, “I think I was supposed to give an explanation. And I would offer you a chair but...” he gestures lamely to the kitchen. “Would it be odd if you sat and I stood?”

  


Draco raised an eyebrow, “As long as it’s a good explanation, as promised, I think sitting my be a better option.”

  


Harry gave an aborted, half laugh, “Right.” And without further, _awkward_ prompting, Draco sat down at the small table. 

  


Now, he was not one to believe in auras or extrasensory perception, that was more Pansy’s current realm, but the entire room felt like grief. It was a heavy, thick feeling that started pulling his thoughts away from the present and into the past. How on _earth_ did bright, child savior Potter live here. 

  


“Okay,” Harry said, shedding his robes and draping them over the small island that separated the kitchen from the living space, he was wearing another one of his sweatshirts, this one said FRIENDS in capital letters, “You remember what I said in April right?”

  


“I think we’ve very clearly established, without a reasonable doubt, that I remember the afternoon in your office in April.” The warm fire, the smell of rain, a small sad girl, a popping ribcage, the tea in mismatched mugs, Harry's wrists, the story told with little to no shame. It was all very clear in his head. Draco looked up and Harry was still, watching him. He couldn't pin the emotion in his face, but he wasn't sure if it was his own racing heart that was clouding his deductive skills. He added, softer, “Please, continue.” Harry answered with a jerky nod.

  


“There was more to it though, aside from the breakdown, there were the nightmares, terrible dark nightmares, losing people, losing the war— I was having nightmares almost every night of the week, my voice was hoarse from waking up screaming. And then there were fights, loud rows in Gin’s place, she wasn’t sleeping because of me and I wasn’t sleeping and we just... I started— they got worse." He could see the effort it took to swallow down the feelings, to try and complete the message, as he shifted back and forth, aimless and anxious. "Worse than before the end of the war— I’d wake up hoarse from screaming. And once... once I woke up with my hands around her neck, so sure that she was Bellatrix. She tried after that. She really did. But I think... I think she didn’t understand _why_ I wasn’t okay. I’d won after all. I’d killed or destroyed all of them, including Voldemort and I’d put away the rest. So why wasn’t I fine? Why wasn’t I happy with her? Why why why?” He went to hit the wall for effect, in his pacing, but all the fight went out of him in the same breath. 

  


It was a good question to ask. Unless... the pieces started to click together, not strongly and not with any supreme clarity, but enough for Draco to ask the next question. The right question. 

  


“There’s more to it, isn’t there? And it’s not about the war, is it?” Harry just looked relieved that someone understood, green eyes locked on his, making him feel pinned to the chair with the force of that look. 

  


“Yes. _Yes_ , there’s so much more.” He rested his head against the wall, a dark, somber mass against all the white. 

  


Draco waited. 

  


“In order...” he started and stopped a few times, trying to form the words, “In order for the protection magic to work, I needed to be taken in by family, after my parents were murdered.” His tone was a hair closer to clinical then personal. A terrifying prospect. He had seen people in the aftermath of the war lose all sense of time and space, detach from the terrible reality, knowing it wasn't healthy but finding no others options for survival. But if it helped them reach the conclusion, “And my mum had a sister. Has a sister. Petunia Dursley, and she has a husband, Vernon, and a son, my age, my cousin Dudley. And they lived in a very normal, very quiet house. You see, my aunt ended up _hating_ my mum for being a witch. I don’t know if it was ever true and deep hate, because she did take me in, but she hated her. Hated her life, her husband and...” Harry trailed off. He was still facing the wall, one hand pressing into it, but Draco wasn’t sure if it was the wall holding up Harry or the other way around. He looked at the floor, shame in his voice. “She hated me. Just a year old and she hated me. Hates me even now, if she thought I was still alive. Her husband— Vernon, hated me too. And their son, they raised him to hate me as well. And you know, that wouldn’t have bothered me. If there’s one thing this whole savior business has done, it made me realize that doing what’s right even when being hated is far better than anything else.” Harry sounded so sold and tired. Tired of the whole business. How much more could he take? Not much, Draco surmised.

  


“But it wasn’t just hate. It was distrust. And anger. And shame. Shame that I even existed. So they did what they thought they had to do. They kept me locked away, in a cupboard under the stairs. If I was lucky, they’d let me out, to cook and clean for them, as I was such a burden on their lives.” He sounded hoarse, and rushed, and scared, even now, “Vernon would hit me, if I messed something up, and so would my aunt, if I didn’t cook just right. And my cousin grew up to do the same. I didn’t have any friends, or any toys, just what I could scrounge from... from the donation bin and the trash. They gave me my cousin’s hand me downs— I was never big for my age, kept shut away in a small space and underfed, when I wasn’t punished. Every so often,” Harry’s voice cracked, “I’d get a real meal, instead of table scraps from dinner. And I’d pretend, that someone who loved me had made it for me, instead of myself.” He swallowed hard and water— tears had started falling from his chin. “When Hagrid finally came to get me, it was my 11th birthday. The first time anyone had told me happy birthday or made me a cake, simply because I was there and existed.” He let out a shaky breath, seemingly exhausted. _How much more could he take?_ But Draco was angry. 

  


“You were a _child_.” Draco was almost shocked at the venom in his voice, the cooled heat and _righteous_ fury he felt. “A _child_ — how could they— did Dumbledore—“

  


“He was the one who dropped me off. He _needed_ the protection magic to work. He needed me to become who I am. Professor McGonagall tried to stop him— tried to convince him but... Dumbledore— The wizarding world, they needed their savior.” Harry’s shoulders sagged, the weight upon them, five years old now, still too great. He thought about how after, when McGonagall became headmistress, how much Harry had spent talking about her with pride. Who did he wish she was? A friend? An aunt? Anyone?

  


“Harry...” he tried to say something but the words got caught in his throat, choked by anger and time. To do these things to a child. To anyone was wrong. He understood that now, as hypocritical as it was. He wanted to find them and shake them to pieces, to drop his wand and fight them in a way he'd never felt. These muggles who hurt this man standing before him, who survived wars and cheated death and lost so many he loved. That Dumbledore, in all his wisdom had deemed the sacrifice of a boy he'd never met, who's parents he'd cherished, was more a lamb to slaughter than an intelligent and feeling being.

  


But... 

  


Who could he punish? They were all just ghosts now. What do you say to the boy who survived instead of merely living? 

  


“I never... I never told Ginny that— how could I? She grew up with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley for parents, God she was _lucky_.” As angry as he was at his own situation, he couldn’t help but feel a deep, stinging sorrow, to think that being around people who loved you intrinsically was lucky. To grow up entirely _alone_ was... unthinkable. “But... I never told her. So... when I left her place, I didn’t have anything. I’d been borrowing the Dursley’s things since birth— nothing made it from my parent's place. Living with friends. Living with Ginny who had things from her siblings. So when I moved out, all I had was some clothes, my pictures. My books, my things from school so I brought it all here and it was so empty. But I didn’t... I couldn’t fill it.” He slid down the wall and sat down, looking so young. "I was alone, without a purpose. A tool without a use. No one to fight." His eyes darted towards Draco and he gave a wet laugh. "And no one to send my emotional hangups to."

  


Every word made Draco want to be sick all over the floor, the bile in the back of his throat. _He was just a tool to them..._ Suddenly he realized all of the times he'd jeered at Potter's infamy, not realizing, in all of his youth, that being bred for a purpose was as isolating as it was for him, only he had parents and relatives and friends to fill that space. Harry had none.

  


“I was sleeping in one of the sleeping bags we used on the run, angry at myself, unable to handle the inactivity, hating everything. I knew I needed to buy things— furniture, food, so on but some— some small part of me is still that boy in the cupboard, watching the rest of the world through the slats on the door and wishing. I couldn’t bring myself to take up space. All I kept doing was watching the sun go past and thinking about, well, everything. And at some point, I thought of you.” Draco inhaled sharply.

  


Harry turned and stared at him. There was maybe two meters of space between them but he could have sworn he could feel the other man just as close as they were earlier when they were fighting in the alley. 

  


“I thought of you, and how _annoyed_ you would be with me. How insulted you would be that I’d gone this far just to pack it all in because of a mattress or a table or a clock. I could even hear your voice—“ it was a decent impression of his accent next— “Honestly, you defeated the most powerful wizard and you can’t be bothered to buy a mattress? A table? A _rug_ even?”

  


“Patel’s,” Draco blurted out, “That’s why you were there.” Harry gave him a small smile.

  


“At first, I thought I’d completely lost it. I couldn’t believe you were there, staring at the wall of rugs. And I knew I had to ask your opinion, if you were real.”

  


Draco just put his head in his hands, and by the time he’d lifted his head back up, he had to laugh. Harry looked at him a little confused.

  


“Draco?”

  


“I can’t believe you used my image to nag you into functioning,” it was absurd, and odd and so _endearingly_ Harry Potter that he felt short of breath, “You’re right, it was a good explanation.” Harry smiled like he was watching the sunset, with the horizon somewhere behind Draco. 

  


“It is, though now I get to hear you in real life, insulting my opinions, does a man’s ego good.” He laughed.

  


“Did it though? This room is, with all the respect of the story you just told, very bare. It might be worth getting the real me’s opinions on it.” 

  


“Oh I hear that all the time still,” Draco inhaled sharply again at that, “But this is just the main rooms—“ He stood up with some effort, shaking his legs out, “Come on, the office and bedroom and bath look better, it’s where I spend most of my time anyway.”

  


Draco stood up stiffly as well, noting how much time had passed sitting here talking, and followed the other man to the hall, lights being turned on as they went. They passed the little water closet, which was indeed, filled with things to make it hospitable, soaps, towels, even a little bowl of decorative stones. “And then this is the office,” Harry pushes the doors to the side and it was clear to see that this was a far better looking room, there was a print on the wall, even. _Water Lilies._ There was a desk and chair in the center, a stack of case files in the inbox, more pens and desk ornaments that were clearly made by kids. And the shelves— they were new, with more files, and books and even more nicknacks and photos. Some of them even had frames. But more importantly, there was a clear love in this room, a clear love for the people gone and the people who remained. After all of the hate and pain, some love was good. 

  


It served a reminder that the Harry that stood next to him was not beyond saving, that the two were not sides of a coin forever at opposite and diametrically opposed ends, but a softening, a blurring of two contrasting colors into a new one. Draco admired it, that someone who had felt so much hate had come out of it with so much care and love. He could have gone the opposite direction, turned his back on them all. Punished them. It wasn’t perfect, Harry’s angry confession had said as much, but there was love and hope. And hope was worth it, if it were placed in the right people. Gods, was it worth it.

  


Silently, Harry led him to the last room, stood aside and let Draco look around.

  


This was the only room in which the walls were painted, the walls a soft, gray blue that exuded calm, while the paint cans laid in the corner under a few glossy magazines that showed furnished rooms and curated spaces. The bed was covered in dark gray sheets, covered in a warm, hand knitted blanket in blue green— _likely from Mrs. Weasley_ —over a lightly patterned bedspread in soft cream, the pillows strewn across it in matching colors and patterns. The walls were bare, but a stack of prints with a note in the distinctive cursive of Editor in Chief Lovegood lent against the wall. There was a dresser, older, but in good quality and the clothes neatly within. Sensing that Harry wouldn't stop him, he peeked inside. He recognized the sweatshirts that Harry favored in a tidy stack, running his fingers along the fabric. Similarly, the closet was open but organized, the shoes ranging from ratty trainers to nicer brown dress shoes with a faint shine in a slightly lopsided row. The light was soft, coming from the fan in the ceiling and the large moon outside and there, under the slightly raised mattress, sat the grey rug from the first night. Draco was right, something neutral worked very well there.

  


“Honestly, it’s you, who helped me, to do all of this. I’d be sitting there, just imagining you tutting at the state of things,” Harry said from the door, “Insulting my very apparent lack of style and very apparent lack of motivation and it became, well, not easier, but more palatable, I suppose. I wasn’t doing it in spite of anyone or to fill up the holes, I was doing it to prove you wrong, because I _wanted_ to be better for you, mostly so you’d stop finding creative ways to remind me of how sad I was.”

  


“Isn’t that doing it to spite me?” Draco asked, tracing the silver frame next to the potted plant where Lily and James Potter, now younger than them both, waved at him among the autumn leaves, “Or, rather, imaginary me.”

  


“I’m not much of a wordsmith, as you can probably tell from my rambling stories,” Harry replied, with a chuckle tucked into the warm fondness in his voice, “But hopefully you’ll find it in yourself, your real self, to forgive me, and,” _when had he started speaking so softly_ , Draco looked up with the thought, a little startled by the green eyes staring back at him, “I hope you’ll stick around for more than just interior design.”

  


And something deep within him, where the bone deep emotions stemmed, warmed, unabashed and with fervor. It was pride and it was pain, still, from the information he now had, and it was an ache and a _delight_ , the intoxicating feel of trust, barely earned but returned in spades, and it hit him with the strength of the ocean cresting a violent wave that stole his breath and his feet out from under him. But the thought itself, the secret confession, was quiet under the sounds of Harry.

  


_I’m in love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any time I use violent, all I can think of is someone whispering: “These violent delights have violent ends,” but in a Baz Luhrmann way and not in a Westworld way.  
> So anyway, one boy is in love and one is a disaster but he’s _trying_ so cut him a break.  
> What’s _more_ amazing is that I have not used a single Lorde song in this entire playlist. Who even am I. (To be honest, it could just be both albums because Lorde is just. that. good.)  
> If you want to find me, I'm still on tumblr (we-re-always-alright) and the ask box is always open.  
> Songs For this Story:
> 
>   1. [Good News - Julien Baker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSgWPJy01es)
>   2. [Bottles and Cans - McCafferty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOf2FZqIEjE)
>   3. [One of One - duendita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gwYIrJsIys)
>   4. [I’m So Tired - Fugazi](https://youtu.be/_Nv11dYMsXQ)
>   5. [Killing Me Softly - Fugees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppz-cwLeqo)
>   6. [Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnLAa6_hB9A)
>   7. [Polonaise B Flat Major, D 580 - Franz Schubert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJLtKxahqiM)
>   8. [Piano Concerto No. 2 II. Larghetto - Frédéric Chopin](https://youtu.be/Q_dSI0gVbp0)
>   9. [Father of Mine - Everclear](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkcbxjWG9Mc)
>   10. [My Idea of Fun - Wingnut Dishwashers Union](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AagXbraxPK0)
>   11. [I’m not a good person - Pat the Bunny](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMyDK3VHYPw)
>   12. [Conversations with the Self Centered - Apes of the State](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6kRU6fXzHEo)
>   13. [Drunk Again - Reel Big Fish](https://youtu.be/p3MM0S4JreQ)
>   14. [Holy - Frightened Rabbit](https://youtu.be/Ul1_I9FvSgY)
>   15. [I Follow Rivers - Lykke Li](https://youtu.be/Ww38Bz7mBGg)
>   16. *[Missed Calls - Mac Miller](https://youtu.be/0GUa5Uz73k0)* 
>   17. *[Truly Madly Deeply - Yokelore](https://youtu.be/4qAzO8FbHn4)* 
>   18. *[Walk on the Ocean - Toad The Wet Sprocket](https://youtu.be/12bM1CqHoBY)* 
> 

> 
>   
>  [Full Playlist Link (Potential Spoilers)](https://open.spotify.com/user/sko9/playlist/3gN6SC5eALPNyKnI4dQU7r?si=MOw2GQuDQrid89mFUWy7FA)


	9. Chapter 9

It should have changed his world, the thought of being in love, but this was real life and not a book. Instead, Draco spent his winter as he had previous: he visited his mother, they visited his father’s grave, while the snow lashed at their rosy cheeks and it was less worse that’s he was expecting but no better considering the news. He spent the appropriate amount of time at the firm’s Christmas party before begging off to get drunk very pointedly _alone_ in his flat (which was tastefully decorated and full of things in the opposite way that someone else’s was not) and he visited his aunt and his distant nephew on New Year’s with mother and he spent time at lunch with Harry and time at the pub with Harry and occasionally with Ronald and he dropped off the drunken oaf as before and exchanged nods with Weasley-Granger and complained to Harry over post about his coworkers and everything, _everything_ , down to the last minutiae, was _exactly_ as before. 

  


And he very resolutely, very assuredly, very distinctly was _not_ in love with Harry Potter.

  


_But that only makes me an absolutely shite liar,_ Draco though, scowling through the wind with an intensity he hadn’t felt in years. _Finally, something moderately good—_ because spending time with Harry felt traitorously and deceivingly good— _and_ reasonably _weird_ —he cursed Weasley for coining such a phrase with a viscous kick to a snow bank as he crossed the road— _had happened and here my heart is, mucking up everything._

  


His mother had been no help, latching onto the secret thought as a niffler did on coin and demanding to know every detail. He was tempted, with a dark streak of humor that matched the slush on the edges of his robes, to tell her exactly who had gone and torn his heart to ribbons, if only to make her stop in fright but the faint warning of her heart stopped him.

  


He loved her, he really did and for all his parents’ faults, Draco knew, objectively, that she only wanted the best for him. That to see him alive and well and happy was her only care in the world. But constantly needling him was only going to send _him_ into an early grave, never mind having to tell his mother that he’d rather be snogging the _Boy_ Who Bloody Lived in his sadly bare flat than any of girls she suggested. Maybe Harry would be alright with absconding to Paris to live in anonymity. Pansy would put him up for a few months while he faked his own death.

  


And of course, _none of that would be happening because Harry is_ never _going to find out about my misaligned fancy._

  


Which is when Draco’s anger carried him with a bang through the door, 20 minutes late, into the _Flying Horse,_ where a small post-Hogwarts gathering was being held and at least 15 sets of eyes turned towards him.

  


_Fuck me._

  


* * *

  


It was all, once again, Harry’s fault. 

  


The way he had proposed it, a few days ago, was that he couldn’t meet at their normal weekly sans-Ronald dinner ( _date_! The vindictive part of his brain tortured him with) as he was going to be at the pub ( _their pub_! His brain squealed while Draco wondered if it was possible to obliviate yourself) for a quarterly get together with some of the classmates of theirs that Draco only knew through generic animosity and last names. Which is when Harry had come up with his next brilliant thought to tumble from his ( _chapped and somehow beautiful lips_ —honestly drowning himself in the sink was looking to be the best option since his brain had run mutinous) mind that Draco go with him. Into the veritable lion’s den, with only Harry and by some _reasonably weird_ turn of fate Ronald Weasley and his wife to defend him when they tore him to shreds. And, out of stupidity ( _faith_ and _love_ ) he’d said yes.

  


A pattern he’d yet to avoid in the decade he’d known him.

  


So here he was, a warm pint of lager in his hand, looking “casual” while his heart tried to beat out of his chest, lurking like some sort of mental patient with a carefully neutral expression on his face that screamed _please I am trying to be normal_ just behind Harry while he and Ronald shared a laugh with Granger. He could see Finnegan off by the bar, getting another round staring at him and could only imagine how completely off-putting and potentially insane he looked. He tried a short nod, one he’d seen Harry use at all sorts of aurors and it made Finnegan only do a double take.

  


_Fuck me._ Draco swore, mentally, _fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me._

  


When he had made his unintentionally dramatic entrance, Harry had instantly bounded over to him, looking for all intents and purposes like an overly excitable dog and greeted him with a loud, “Draco! You made it, I was starting to worry,” which if his entrance hadn’t turned heads that most certainly had. And then, as if they were publicly close and dear friends, had given him a _hug_ and Draco was almost certain he’d seen the littlest Weasley nearly spit out her beer and turn green, making her look unfortunately Christmas-y.

  


Then, using his powers of whatever the hell it was that made him the Boy Who Defeated the Dark Lord, Harry had ushered him in and hung up his coat, prattling about something or other as Draco was becoming more and more aware that he was far too overdressed in his slimming cashmere jumper, tailored shirt and dark, expensive denim even when he was _trying_ to dress down, and somehow the conversation had started back up as Harry had led him to the bar to get a drink, though he was certain it was all about him. The numb tattoo on his forearm itched but he knew to make any sudden moves would be the sure way to get a stunner in the back.

  


It was only when Ronald had greeted him with a guffaw and a loud, “Never thought Harry would’ve gotten you out here Malfoy,” that people had stopped looking as though they were ready to reach for their wands at any minute. Even Granger had given him a brief half smile.

  


Either they thought him completely insane, a logical step considering that he and Harry had spent a good portion of time trying and nearly succeeding at killing each other, or under some sort of curse, equally likely due to the aforementioned fact. _Either way,_ Draco thought miserably, _I’m fucked at this point._ And even knowing that, he _still_ wanted to apparate to France as quickly as possible with Harry.

  


“Don’t worry, Draco,” came a soft, dreamy voice beside him as he stood in the outside of a conversation, “They take a while to warm up to everyone.”

  


“I bet you say that to all the former death eaters,” came the retort before he could stop it. He wasn’t even drinking yet. _Proper fucked._ He turned to face Luna Lovegood, her hair in a complex set of twists and tumbles where bright red chopsticks stuck out of it, in a soft peach sundress with grey woolen tights and snow boots and white fingerless gloves bedecked with pearls and her, now famous, radish earrings swinging as she fixed him with a tilted-headed look, “I’m sorry—”

  


“Oh don’t be,” she said, an impish smile growing, her faint Irish accent lilting over the sounds of chatter and laughter around them, “I only make exceptions for those who keep me locked in their mansions.”

  


That startled a short laugh out of him.

  


“But really,” Luna said with all seriousness, stirring the whiskey in her hands with a lurid pink umbrella more fitting for the tropics, “They’re just like that with everyone. I think,” she continued, side stepping into his space as one of the Patel twins brushed past them, “They have an issue with blondes but I’ve never been able to confirm it. Well, until now at least.”

  


“Either that or it’s something to do with not being a Gryffindor,” he added, noting how people seemed to avoid both of them, though her less than him, “Considering we’re the only two not directly related to that house.”

  


“Very strange indeed,” she agreed, taking a sip of her drink and Draco copied the motion so he wouldn’t say something else completely dense. While better than standing there awkwardly and silently, it was still terrible. He had to mention the elephant between them.

  


“I am sorry,” he said after a short silence, with true sincerity because he did truly feel it, even if he didn’t cast the curses or kidnap her himself, because he was at fault for believing it, “For—” He paused, an unfortunate habit he seems to have picked up from Harry, “Everything.” She watched him over the rim of her umbrella, her blue eyes deep and probing.

  


“Apology accepted,” she said, lowering her drink and extending a hand for him to shake on auto-pilot, “Even though I don’t need it,” she added, not unkindly. He almost gaped, except he was a Malfoy and raised better than that, particularly in the company of women.

  


“You’re either wise beyond your years or completely insane,” Draco said before he could stop himself. Luna laughed before grinning widely at him.

  


“I _do_ have a reputation to uphold. And here, in the _Flying Horse_ no less, I could say the same of you, Draco Malfoy.” She finished her drink before neatly tucking the umbrella onto her hair artfully, “Don’t be a stranger at these things, we still need more evidence that there’s a bias against blondes.” And with that she ducked around him to get to the bar and passed Granger and Weasley with a trailing hand and as he watched her, he caught Harry’s eye and with how he was grinning, that made the last five minutes worth every other embarrassing moment that had accompanied it.

  


* * *

  


After that, Granger—Hermione now—invites him into the conversation asking him about the work they’d done on a muggle school in north Sussex a few weeks prior and Ronald keeps plying him with beer and Luna stops by twice more to report on people’s reactions to them (slowly growing the umbrella’s in her garden of hair) and even Longbottom stops by, remarks that he didn’t believe until he saw it and that he’s alright with it all but one step out of place and he’ll punch him with such drunken seriousness he starts—which only serves to send Granger into lightly scolding him, red wine in hand about inciting violence in a muggle pub and Ronald into peels of drunk laughter and Harry to smile and grip him on the shoulder until he relaxes.

  


No one else approaches them, but no one stares outright or glares either. It’s a warm feeling, surrounded by Harry’s friends and getting a little tipsy and actually promising to come to the next one, though hopefully in a more convenient pub. It’s not perfect, not by a long shot. Sometimes the conversation stalls and they all remember, at different times, the war they shared. If you asked him the next day, he wouldn’t be able to tell you what they talked about, only that he knew that Harry had rested a warm, nimble hand on his lower back no less that seven times. It’s far better than he could have imagined, so he’s not at all surprised that when he begs off (with a regret so unavailable during the firm Christmas Party) that he’s glad Harry offered to walk him home not out of obligation but out of a night well spent.

  


Even the weather looked fortuitous—fat flakes falling slowly where the biting wind and freezing rain had turned him rosy cheeked despite the warming charms. It was still and perhaps, cheekily because Draco was in _love_ damnit, a little bit magic.

  


“It was a logical reaction—I heard what he’d done to the snake!”

  


Harry bent over, laughing into the ground before standing up and saying to the sky, “God, Draco, don’t ever change.”

  


“Wasn’t planning on it,” he said copying Luna’s grin from earlier, “I _do_ have to stay on brand.” Harry just laughed more, his voice ringing out, catching up to him and walking close enough their shoulders brushed as they navigated the slush and snow drifts. They walk in content silence and Draco will allow himself this crystalline moment. Real or not real, he’d earned this slice of happiness.

  


“So,” the man next to him starts, “I’ve gotten an actual frame for my bed and a second chair for my place and I was thinking of picking up some more magazines because I think it’s high time I got a sofa and a Telly—can’t have you keeling over next time you come for a visit.”

  


“Perish the thought,” he drawled in return, “Then you’d only be with my memory insulting you for company.” But he walked closer, until their arms were nearly flush as they walked, “In all seriousness, that’s good. Let me... Let me know if you need an opinion. Or an ear,” And he had zero idea how to be supportive, particularly while drunk, so he floundered on the next part, “Or something.” How did one accurately describe the delicacy that was being wanted, specifically by the one you cared about. The one you would go to awkward outings to pubs with and share maudlin memories with. Harry gave him all of that and more, only asking his opinion in return when Draco would find a way to give him the sun and stars if he could. How inarticulate words were when love was involved.

  


“Or something,” Harry echoed, sounding entirely too fond and chummy and he quickly remembered he was just another platonic friend to him.

  


_And if just that little phrase,_ Draco thinks as he waves Harry goodbye that the steps to his admittedly posh flat, _can shatter me..._ His heart ached with longing and unsaid words and other silly little things as he shut the door behind him, hearing Harry pop out of existence on the other side.

  


This would need to end before it hurt too much and finally killed him.

* * *

By the time Harry had gotten back to his flat, he was ecstatic.

  


Here he was, in love, just after Christmas, and with someone so _odd_ and so delightful and so fit that he felt like a loon with how much grinning he was doing. _Christ that grey jumper—_ Maybe his face was going to stick permanently that way. He wasn’t sure he would mind.

  


Here he was, apparating a few blocks away from home just so he could kick the snow and hoot and holler into the empty, late night air, muggle neighbors be damned. It felt like flying.

  


Harry remembered, a long while ago, watching from the corner of the room while he was cleaning, when Petunia was watching a movie—some sort of American musical, where the main bloke had been so blindingly happy after a date that he’d ended up singing in the rain, kicking up the water and getting soaking wet, just because the woman had gone on a date with him. At the time, he’d thought it was rather stupid, with all the certainty that eight year olds have, but now.

  


Now he got it.

  


He’d never expected this. Never once dreamed that in any reality, he would be this happy after a date with Draco Malfoy. You could have told him, at any point in his life, that he would be here and he wouldn’t believe it. Not ever. And now. 

  


Everything books and movies and television and any person he’d talk to, their descriptions of love finally made sense. He’d liked Cho but had never expected her to actually return his affections and never in the way it had ended up and Gin had been this force just outside of his reach. Like he was a breeze in her hurricane. But with Draco…

  


With Draco, there had always been some sort of inexplicable force, pulling them together, and if for a moment he had believed in the drivel that Trelawny had always spoke of, he would have said it was some kind of fate. Only now, he _felt_ it, deep in his bones. He couldn’t articulate it, not to Hermione, when she’d asked why and not to Ron when he said it was bloody weird and not even to Luna, who out of everyone would just _understand_ without needing an explanation (she _did_ , but surprising _no one_ understood it in her own unique way), only knowing that being with Draco, being this close, it felt right. 

  


Even at the reunion party tonight, Harry hadn’t felt uncomfortable at all. He’d told everyone, or rather, he’d told Seamus, who had told everyone and really, at the end of the day, he didn’t care what anyone outside of the Weasley’s and Hermione had thought, but everyone seemed to gloss over that he was now dating a man and skip right on to former Death Eater as their sticking point. Harry understood, he did. He’d put enough of them away to know, they were bad people, doing dark deeds for no reason other than self superiority. But in Draco Malfoy, he recognized something of himself, as strange as it was, in the desire to fit in, to be loved. If he could, he would have killed Lucius himself just for the self doubt that he had forced upon his son and made Draco think that he was less than worthy, that he'd have to fight a war to be that way, that blood was equivalent to superiority. Maybe it was an overreaction at the ghosts that surrounded them but _fuck._ He was faced with someone who _got_ the pain and the abuse and the fear and if he gave any of that up, he’d only have himself to blame. He’d read, somewhere, that some outside force would only tap on your shoulder a few times to show you the way, and if you didn’t heed it, it was your own fault. He could give a toss what anyone else thought. He was _happy,_ no strings attached and no evil wizard hanging over his head.

  


Draco had seemed a little off at first, but blessed, blissfully weird Luna had softened him up. Harry couldn’t take his eyes off him the whole night, knowing that they were there _together._ It was better than being drunk.

  


It didn’t feel out of his control and it didn’t feel outside of what he new. It felt like coming home. And it was so bloody worth it, to have him close, to listen to him complain about Zabini and his coworkers, to watch him make a comment in his dry drawl and immediately check if it were alright, to look at the way his wrists tapered into strong, rangy forearms when he would roll up his sleeves, uncaring and daring Harry to say anything about the faded tattoo on his forearm.

  


He was life itself, unabashed and human in all the ways there could be, bottled into a tincture that Harry wanted, constantly.

  


And now they were dating and life couldn’t be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get Bummed out is a pretty damn fine song for this fic, it’s all “Steady heartbeat for once in my life, I’m moving my feet so I can try, **To get over you before you’re even mine** ,” and “If I move away from you, Would you miss me the way that I miss you? So get more blue and **I won’t talk to you, 'cause it’ll hurt too badly when you let me down** ,” and “And I drive around this stupid town, **Building you up in my mind** , And I get bummed out,” and “If you feel like giving up, just make a mess of me, I’ll always clean it up...” 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Like damn. You can also make the case for that T.S. Eliot quote about the greatest treason but this is fic, we talk about pop punk/indie music here. Accept no substitutes. Patton quotes, dimly referenced, are just fine though.
> 
>   
> 
> 
> But Superposition is still more perfect :^)
> 
>   
> 
> 
> (Bonus for the Dayz n Daze quote tyvm)
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Songs for this Story:
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   1. [Good News - Julien Baker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSgWPJy01es)
>   2. [Bottles and Cans - McCafferty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOf2FZqIEjE)
>   3. [One of One - duendita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gwYIrJsIys)
>   4. [I’m So Tired - Fugazi](https://youtu.be/_Nv11dYMsXQ)
>   5. [Killing Me Softly - Fugees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppz-cwLeqo)
>   6. [Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnLAa6_hB9A)
>   7. [Polonaise B Flat Major, D 580 - Franz Schubert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJLtKxahqiM)
>   8. [Piano Concerto No. 2 II. Larghetto - Frédéric Chopin](https://youtu.be/Q_dSI0gVbp0)
>   9. [Father of Mine - Everclear](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkcbxjWG9Mc)
>   10. [My Idea of Fun - Wingnut Dishwashers Union](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AagXbraxPK0)
>   11. [I’m not a good person - Pat the Bunny](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMyDK3VHYPw)
>   12. [Conversations with the Self Centered - Apes of the State](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6kRU6fXzHEo)
>   13. [Drunk Again - Reel Big Fish](https://youtu.be/p3MM0S4JreQ)
>   14. [Holy - Frightened Rabbit](https://youtu.be/Ul1_I9FvSgY)
>   15. [I Follow Rivers - Lykke Li](https://youtu.be/Ww38Bz7mBGg)
>   16. [Missed Calls - Mac Miller](https://youtu.be/0GUa5Uz73k0)
>   17. [Truly Madly Deeply - Yokelore](https://youtu.be/4qAzO8FbHn4)
>   18. [Walk on the Ocean - Toad The Wet Sprocket](https://youtu.be/12bM1CqHoBY)
>   19. *[Rejection - My Name is Ian](https://youtu.be/ZbZMNNkmIXI)* 
>   20. *[Get Bummed Out - Remember Sports](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tt61RXUzTPs)* 
>   21. *[Lost Without You - Freya Ridings](https://youtu.be/-RT3uFugS0k)* 
> 

> 
>   
> 
> 
> [Full Playlist Link (Potential Spoilers)](https://open.spotify.com/user/sko9/playlist/3gN6SC5eALPNyKnI4dQU7r?si=MOw2GQuDQrid89mFUWy7FA)


	10. Chapter 10

So it was self preservation when Draco started pulling back. He’d had his moment to bask in the sun that was Harry Potter, with his smiles and his sincerity and his honest care for those around him. Harry would be _fine_ when he was gone, really he would. He would still have his friends and his nearly fully furnished flat and the expanding Weasley family and his fulfilling job and Draco Malfoy would just fade into the background and disappear entirely. He’d become a story that others would ask Harry about, or Harry would tell them about, and one day, he’d fade entirely from memory. Harry would be fine. Yet to make himself keep standing by his side only to wave goodbye as a friend was some sort of unholy torture that, while earned over his life, was too painful.

  


So Draco started pulling back.

  


Here and there, he would cancel a dinner or a meetup or a pub afternoon, even if he desperately needed it, instead reading alone in his flat. He took longer to respond to the owls or would miss floo calls entirely. He went to one more outing of Hogwarts graduates, just to fulfill his promise, before declining them ever since. Though invited, he never went back to Harry’s office snug between the second and third floor and he never went back to his flat, sure if he even took one step he would just fall harder and his hard work would be undone. He never outright lied, because that would be admitting that what he was doing was wrong when it wasn’t.

  


Each time, it hurt, to place the word Last as a bookend to every First, but it was better for both of them.

  


Draco sharply shut the book in his lap, staring at the words _Wuthering Heights_ as if they had personally offended him. _No more muggle books after this and definitely none this awful._

  


Outside, the rain had stopped but the sun was too weak to break through the clouds. By now, Harry and Ronald were probably deep into a discussion of the cases of the day, and nary a thought spared for the former death eater sitting maudlin in his chair.

  


He got up with a sigh, heading to the kitchen to get some tea when there was a sharp banging at the door. And then shouting. And then the hinges gave a great creak and— _shit the door!_

  


Draco, wrenched it open and nearly took a fist to the face from Harry Fucking Potter, who was standing, slightly soggy in front of it, a determined expression on his face while Ronald just looked pained behind him. 

  


And Harry stared. And Draco stared back.

  


Ronald just raised his hands as if to say _he’s your problem now mate_ and turned and left with a pop.

  


“Draco—”

  


“Harry—”

  


“I don’t know what I did but I’m sorry,” Harry cut him off, the smell of whiskey and pub and cigarette smoke proceeding him, rambling with a manic look, “Honestly, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I can do to make it up to you but I’m sorry and I miss you and I l—”

  


“Harry, stop,” and his jaw clicked shut Draco’s words, paling a little as he let go of the door and it swung wider, “I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about but—”

  


“Your place is so well decorated like I imagined,” Harry blurted out and then looked properly embarrassed for interrupting, “Christ how do you—”

  


“Seriously, you’re starting to scare me—”

  


“—You’re always so _impeccable_ —”

  


“—How drunk are you, you sound like a lunatic—”

  


“—You make me _want_ to be a stupid bloody hero—” 

  


“—Bursting in here like some sort of escaped convict—”

  


“—God I missed you.” And at that Harry had leaned forward and cupped his face all in one motion and then they were kissing.

  


Kissing in the middle of his doorway in front of his flat and Harry tasted like whiskey and a hint of lager and the smell of cigarettes was still on him and for once his lips weren’t chapped and Draco’s mind couldn’t handle any more because it was everything he wanted and if this was death then he was more than ready to welcome it into open arms—

  


He pushed him off, “You—what—how—”

  


“I’m sorry for whatever I did and I love you,” Harry affirmed before crowding into his space again and then they were kissing against the doorframe and it was all of his fantasies come true, Draco a more willing participant as his body reacted and—

  


Draco pushed him off, mind overloaded with the sense that he now knew how Harry Potter, object of his misaligned affections kissed, and tried again, “Harry James Potter if you don’t explain yourself right now—”

  


“Please take me back,” Harry murmured, leaning in for more before Draco ducked out of his way.

  


“Harry stop, why are you _kissing_ me? The emphasis being it’s _me_?”

  


“Because I love you,” Harry said with all the confidence of the bravely drunk, “And I know I upset you with something but I apologized and I just want you back.” _And fuck, he was_ sincere _about this. About me_.

  


Draco could have been stupefied, right there, and it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference, staring at Harry in front of him, face frozen in place as his mind tried to catch up. 

  


“Was it something I said— or did?” Harry asked, determined to figure out the truth, “I knew we were going slow—“

  


“Hang on—“

  


“But I thought you were happy—you always had that look—“

  


“What _look_ —”

  


“Like you cared and _were_ happy and I—”

  


“Harry, you complete prat, shut _up_ so I can speak!”

  


He at least had the decency to look drunkenly chagrined. 

  


“Thank you,” he said pointedly. He adjusted his jumper collar slightly so it sat correctly, barely avoiding a shiver as he remember why is was messed up in the first place. “Now. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them.” Harry opened his mouth but Draco cut him off, “With yes or no answers only.”

  


“Yes,” replied Harry and said no more. _Well you can’t fault Gryffindor’s for following directions blindly as it is apparently effective._

  


“You are under the impression that we’ve been dating?”

  


“Yes.”

  


“And that we’ve been taking it slow?”

  


“Yes.”

  


“And that you have done something wrong to cause me to break up with you?”

  


“Yes...?” He looked devastated through that response. 

  


“But you don’t know what you’ve done to cause it?”

  


“No. I mean, yes. Yes.” 

  


Draco Malfoy had no words. He was beyond shock. He felt almost numb. And also a faint feeling of giddy because apparently Harry Potter spread insanity. 

  


“And when,” he said in a slightly strangled tone, “Did we start dating?”

  


Harry opened and shut his mouth. _Bless his stupid, handsome heart, he was still following my order_. “You can answer.”

  


“Since you came to my flat and I asked you to stick around,” he said with a grin.

  


_Stupid stupid Gryffindor._ He had to laugh, deranged as it was. That was two months ago. 

  


“Harry Potter, you are possibly the _worst_ at communicating and I cannot believe you thought we were dating this whole time, without _ever_ asking me! Who do you get your emotional information from, _Ronald Bloody Weasley_?!”

  


And Harry looked absolutely heartbroken, “So we’ve broken up?”

  


“Use your _words_ next time is what I’m saying.”

  


“So...”

  


“You idiot— how can we have broken up if we hadn’t even started properly dating yet,” and then it was Draco’s turn to press Harry into the wall and kiss him with all the emotions he had locked away. 

  


Just once, everything was turning out perfectly.

  


* * *

  


It had taken all of his strength and the better part of an hour but he’d eventually sent Harry home. He hadn’t wanted to but he was still drunk as anything and Draco didn’t want this mutual confession to be a spur of the moment thing, regardless of how little they talked. 

  


Draco couldn’t help it, he felt like _he_ was the one who was drunk—he even ran into the corner of the wall on his way to bed, too busy tracing his own lips and thinking about they way they had fit together. And even then, he wasn’t mad, he just laughed, breathless and happy.

  


* * *

  


And then of course, because the universe was consistently conspiring against him, came the inevitable hangover the next day as reality set in.

  


_What was I thinking?_ Draco thought, miserable at his desk, watching his tea cool and staring at the letter that had just been dropped off from one of the Ministry owls. _This is never going to work._

  


The note was nothing special—nothing unusual than what was usually delivered via post from Harry, even the language was tame: _Thought about you again. Meet me for lunch at the usual place? - HP_ It was only his own thoughts that were adding color to it, imagining the feel of the hands that held the ‘biro,’ the brow that had crinkled as he thought on what to write. If he had thought his imagination was awful prior to last night, he was so incomprehensibly wrong.

  


Now that he knew how those hands felt (on his arm, on his wrist, barely tracing past the numb tattoo) and how under the smell of whiskey and rain there was only Harry (something incomprehensible to human language) and how every now and then Harry would be caught staring and laugh out of joy (the way his eyes would crinkle, the dimple that appeared, the unrestrained laughter), he was certain that no one else had ever felt these emotions so forcefully. No one until him and now he was dealing with the afterthought of them in the cold light of the foggy morning.

  


“Did someone _die_?” Draco would like to say that he was proud of himself for not startling and only looking up at Blaise with a half hearted look of disdain, but that only reinforced how much of an idiot he was. _If this was love, I’d rather not._ Blaise’s eyes widened as he stared back at Draco, his stylish purple blazer at the perfect angle across his gray silk dress shirt, his shoes shined and far ahead of the fashion curve as he rested on the edge of Draco’s desk.

  


“Blaise, I’m not particularly in the mood,” Draco said, folding the note and placing it back into his pocket as he set his cooled tea to the side so he could continue his research on pincushion curses from India that had been twisted into the latest death eater case in Newcastle upon Tyne. “If you could be so kind as to return to your office—”

  


“So,” he drawled and Draco cursed internally, “I’m going to need to understand why you look as though someone has just eviscerated you and why, or we’re going to have an even longer and more uncomfortable discussion about feelings than you wish.” This was a common tactic that Zabini used—offer you two options, neither of which were pleasant and then give you enough rope to hang yourself with. If it weren’t turned on himself at the moment, he would be impressed. Coupled with his sly stare and arched brow, it was extremely effective.

  


“There’s nothing to discuss.”

  


“Draco, Draco,” he clucked, shaking his head, “Don’t make me pull rank on you for this.” He ignored him, pulling out a quill and paper, ready to continue the task at hand. He started reading, content to pretend the other man wasn’t there. _It is commonly thought that the basis for the Pincushion curse is rooted in acupuncture practices, which date back to the earliest eras of magic—_ “Is it a woman?” _—Many researchers have erroneously thought that the pain appears in random locations throughout the body however, after the study by Sir Phineas Finnaire, it was discovered that the pain would trace the major nerves—_ “Is it a man?”

  


While he was able to hide his reaction earlier, he couldn’t stop the jolt that went through him, slashing through Sir Phineas’ name, as he felt his heart race. There was no way he could know, but he wasn’t able to stop himself from looking at Blaise in a slight panic. “So it’s a man—obviously someone you’re ashamed of, judging by that reaction,” And Draco couldn’t help but scoff—he was the one despoiling the Chosen One, “Or not, judging by _that_ one.” _Fuck,_ he was giving too much away.

  


“It’s not—” Draco swallowed hard. The lump in his throat was full of everything he knew but didn’t want to say. Because he was despoiling Harry, who’d had a hard life and how do you tell anyone why you’re doing something insane for the right reasons.

  


“You’re far too _easy_ , Draco,” Blaise continued, brushing lint off of his desk.

  


“Oh fuck off—”

  


“So there _is_ something going on, with a man, who you’re not ashamed of but ashamed to be in a relationship with?”

  


He opened his mouth to tell Zabini off, to lie to him, to tuck himself into the dark places only he knew, but he stopped himself. As willing as the Zabini’s were to switch sides, they were deeply prideful and once a secret was earned, it was kept. And he was tired of arguing with only himself.

  


“There is a man, but I’m not ashamed of it. I’m actually,” he collected himself slightly, “I’m actually ending it today...” He felt the shame and sadness roll through him like waves, a storm over the ocean of unsaid things.

  


There was silence as Draco stared down at the words swimming in the book.

  


“My office— _now_.” And Blaise all but dragged him there, shutting the door and poking him in the chest once he had stumbled into standing there, watching the other man with wide eyes. All the joking in Blaise’s face from earlier was gone.

  


“What—”

  


“No one who looked like you did, is actually interested in ending a relationship, which means you’re being an idiot.”

  


“Blaise—”

  


“You did it all the time in school and I’m not just going to _watch_ it happen, it’s depressing and this is a place of business.” Draco gave him a withering look. ”Explain, now.”

  


With nothing left to lose, Draco did. 

  


He told him an abridged version, starting at the very beginning with the first encounter in Patel’s, skirting any discussion of Harry’s past out of respect and ending with their heated confession and plans for the day that would include Draco cutting this off before it ended poorly. To his credit, the other man didn’t react much, except to clarify the timeline and to occasionally shake his head or nod. By the end of it, he was exhausted, despite it only having been 20 minutes, the events having taken, he now realized, over the better part of a year.

  


Blaise was quiet for a moment, leaning against the shelves in his office and watching him.

  


“I was wrong before,” he said, “You’re a _fucking_ idiot.”

  


“That’s uncalled for—”

  


“It’s _completely_ called for. Honestly, you two are perfect—he’s got a hero complex and you’ve developed some sort of martyr complex. Ridiculous,” Blaise crossed his arms and fixed him with a look. Draco bristled.

  


“I don’t have a martyr complex,” he crossed his arms as well, “I’m trying to do the right thing—”

  


“ _Why_ on _earth_ do you think telling him to piss off, after he all but begged you to stay together, is the right thing to do? In any conceivable situation, it is intrinsically the _wrong_ thing to do.”

  


“I was a _Death Eater,_ ” Draco tried to say before Blaise cut him off again.

  


“So was I! So were a lot of people! But Merlin, Draco, it’s not going to allow any of us to live our fucking _lives_ if we keep wallowing in the past,” his tone softened slightly, “We may not have lived lives to be proud of, but it’s the past, we’re meant to move on from it. To take a second chance and waste it, to not do better. _That’s shameful._ Otherwise we just waste away.”

  


Draco stared at him, afraid that if he looked away, he’d end up tearing up or something silly like that. It was what he didn’t want to hear, but needed to hear, yes, but he didn’t believe it yet, this ‘truth’ he’d spoken. Not at all.

  


“I’m going to—to screw it up, or someone will say something and—” Why was he even saying this, Blaise didn’t care about his shortcomings, “That’ll kill me, if he ends up leaving—” Heavy hands, one carrying the Zabini family ring beset with Barbados pearls, rested on his shoulders, forcing him to focus away from the carpet swimming below him.

  


“You can’t base your decisions now on things that may not happen. All you’d be doing is making sure the worst will always happen.”

  


“Is that a Zabini family secret?” Draco choked out. He felt at least one or two tears escape and the room felt far too warm for February.

  


“Always covering up with barbs, Mr. Malfoy, it’s very unbecoming,” He wiped away the tears _with a matching and monogrammed handkerchief_ because he was Blaise Zabini and that was just something he did and added, “It’s my mother’s secret to real happiness. You take things as they come and make the best of where you are right now. Talking of maybe’s and someday’s only forces you down paths you don’t want to take.” He shook his head again. “And, as your boss, I’m requiring you to stop bringing you sad little woe-is-me act into the office anymore, you’re causing the plants to wilt and that looks bad for business.”

  


For the first time since starting this job, Draco laughed and with it, felt lighter than he had since receiving the note. He had a lunch date to make.

  


* * *

  


Now, while Draco had clearly had a large realization leading to why he was sitting in their usual restaurant in their second most usual table, a realization earned through crying in front of Blaise Zabini, an event many would liken to a crucible of the greatest degree, clearly Harry Potter did not.

  


Because Harry Potter was an _hour and a half late._

  


And now, Draco ‘entirely-too-trusting-when-it-comes-Harry-Fucking-Potter’ Malfoy was enjoying the pitying stares from the muggles in the restaurant and the waitress coming by, yet again, to ask him if he’d like to order anything. 

  


“No,” he said shortly and without a smile, so much so she slightly recoiled in the way that wait staff would when faced with the worst of customers, “Thank you.” He added as an afterthought, while she bobbed and weaved around the other closely seated tables, back to the hostess stand where she instantly started gossiping to the other waiter.

  


_Well, that decides that, I can never show my face in this place again._

  


After the first 15 minutes of waiting, he’d just assumed that Harry was running late due to his chronic inability to judge times. It was endearing, at times. At 30 minutes, Draco made internal excuses that Harry was likely tidying up something at work or had run into one of the many aurors who seemed to always want to pick his brain. He ordered a sparkling water, a delightful thing he’d discovered they would serve here and practiced what teasing remark he would make when Harry finally rushed in. At 55 minutes late, Draco almost left, but instead, switched to the other chair so he could watch the door and wait for him to walk in. He ordered another water, forgoing the lemon this time. At an hour and five minutes past, someone asked to borrow the chair across from him, as the crowd was picking up, but he declined their request, stating that he was waiting for someone. The waitress stopped over a few more times. And now he was here, nearing an hour and 45 minutes late and looking down at his empty place setting and wishing he could break the secrecy law to disappear without having to get up and walk out of the restaurant in shame.

  


He started pulling out the muggle ‘pounds’ to cover his two waters when someone finally dropped into the seat across from him with a huff and Draco’s heart thudded as he whipped his head up— _who bloody cares if he’s late, I’m just glad he’s here_ —

  


It was Ronald Weasley.

  


Ronald Weasley with dust on his robes and a sheepish smile and a slightly bleeding cut over his brow and not Harry.

  


Draco opened his mouth to speak but Ronald beat him to it.

  


“I know you’re probably spitting mad at Harry for blowing you off but there’s a really good explanation for it,” Ronald waved away the waitress, “But you should still come with me.” _He wasn’t even going to come. And he sent_ Weasley, _of all people, to let me down easily._ He was beyond mad, so mad, that he was calm and, if memory served him, absolutely terrifying when he wore the right expression. And, just like he remembered, Ronald grew even more pale than usual. “Uh, Malfoy—”

  


“I have been waiting for nearly _two_ fucking hours for him to show up. Two hours. And he couldn’t even come here and grovel on his own—”

  


“Well—”

  


“And instead of anything reasonable like that, he sent you, looking a mess to tell me to come with you, so that way, when I _murder_ your friend for being a complete prat, I can do so with a witness.” Ronald had the audacity to _laugh_ just slightly at that. Clearly he had no value on his remaining alive to reach his wedding anniversary.

  


“Draco,” and _that_ shocked him out of the positively foul mood that he was working himself into because he had always been _Malfoy_ to his _Weasley_ , “I mean it, it’s a really good reason and if you could _please,_ come with me to Harry’s office, I’ll help Harry clear this all up.” And at that, he gave a tiny smile, a hopeful one and an honest one. It wasn’t endearing, not like Harry’s were, but it was so...out of place to be directed at him that he knew that he had to see what this was, what was so important that it had made even Ronald Weasley treat Draco Malfoy with a semblance of dignity and respect. _Strange times._

  


So dropping the money on the table, as he had seen Harry do so many times, he got up, nodded to Ronald and followed him out to the nearest entrance for the Ministry.

  


“Merlin’s _pants_ Malfoy,” the red head next to him joked, his longer legged stride meant that Draco had to widen his own stride to keep up, “For a moment I thought you were going to make my own eyes melt in my skull with how you were glaring.”

  


“Well,” he huffed, a little proud that he could still strike fear on a day where he’d been stood up, cried and had far too many emotional conversations, “He could have owled.” Weasley had the decency not to comment on the flimsy excuse he was using to cover his tender heart and led him into the underground. They moved in silence for a bit.

  


They’re waiting in line for the entrance, stuck in the lunch crowd and attracting stares, as former members of the golden trio and death eaters are wont to do, when it strikes Draco how—

  


“Reasonably weird, isn’t it,” he mutters, watching a dark haired witch quickly turn away from him. “Honestly, Ronald, I will never forgive you for coining that particular phrase.” Ronald only laughed in reply.

  


By the time they’d finally gotten through and Draco had shaken off the feeling of being compressed through sections of pipes, the lunch crowd had mostly disappeared from the hall, already back in their offices and their meetings and already glued to the memos and post flying around the atrium.

  


“You know,” Ronald says, as they wait for the elevator to take them down to the second level, “When you’re not trying to be a terrible arse, you’re kind of funny.” He’s about to retort when he catches up to the words.

  


“‘Trying to be’?” He echoes, unsure of what he’s implying.

  


“Well yeah,” he says in that delightfully in exact fashion he’s so fond of, “Harry wouldn’t be interested in someone who didn’t care and he definitely wouldn’t hang out with someone who was an utter arsehole, through and through. What I reckon,” which always meant ‘Hermione made an observation since I’m too dense to notice it myself and I’m now using it as my own,’ “Is you spend a lot of time trying to fit in a specific mold, but now you’re free to be whoever you want and you’re only _trying_ to be mean, which means you’re not and ‘Mione and I stand by Harry’s opinion of you. He’s not always right but,” and he shrugs his massive shoulders as if he hadn’t just given some long analysis of his character and how they, as Harry’s best friends and family, didn’t mind this relationship, “What can you do?”

  


It sounded almost like permission.

  


“Alright,” Ronald said, thumping him on the back with one of his frying pans that were also his hands, “Good luck mate, I’m rooting for you lot.” And he turn around and disappeared down the stairs to head back to his office, leaving Draco, shocked, in front of the door that announced “H. Potter” and below that, “Magical Child Protective Services.”

  


It takes him longer than he’d like to admit to actually knock on the door, all of the anxiety and stress of the day culminating in this moment. At so many points in this year, and it had been a year, he could have stopped and taken a different path. He could have never ended up here in front of this door, waiting to knock with the last ounce of courage (stupidity) he had left. But Blaise was right. Trying to resolve the past or trying to avoid the future would never let him knock on that door, would never open him to the possibilities, good and bad, that were ahead. And sometimes, the bad would be _awful_ but it didn’t mean that this, this good and bright thing just beyond the glass and wood wasn’t worth it.

  


_It was so worth it._

  


“Come in,” Harry’s voice came from beyond and the door swung open and there he was.

  


Robes off, in another jumper (a Mrs. Weasley original, judging by the homemade quality) with the sleeves pushed up and his decent jeans and a few bags under his eyes but he was smiling this little stunned smile at Draco and he could feel his own mouth tugging upwards in response. Beyond him, the silent picture of the Thames rolled by, while the fire crackled and classical music (some piano piece—Beethoven? Liszt? Probably Liszt) softly played from the wireless on the mantle.

  


_A good and bright thing, a light at the end of the tunnel._ It felt achingly like _home_.

  


“Hey,” Harry breathed, standing up to stand close to him, “I’m glad Ron caught you before you left.”

  


“I almost did,” Draco admitted, watching the way Harry blinked in response, “You were two hours late and I didn’t even need to be occulumens to know that muggles were thinking it was pathetic. Switching back and forth between the lonely yet handsome man and their own sad lunch dates like it was a particularly boring quidditch match.” And Harry laughs and _Merlin_ if that isn’t the best sound he’s heard all day.

  


“God, two miserable sights in the same restaurant.” And his smile turns a little sadder at him. “It was another rough case today—I couldn’t leave him alone. And,” he swallowed, and Draco realized in that moment that he was just as scared of this thing between them as he was, “I can’t promise I won’t do the same thing again, Draco.” It sounded like a promise; a promise to try because this was worth it. A promise to trust without looking to see if this were the light at the end of the tunnel or an incoming train, because they’d be walking together, facing outward.

  


A chance.

  


“I can’t promise I’m worth your time—” Draco admits.

  


“Draco—”

  


“Let me finish,” he says, gently, and he swallows down the fear, remembering Blaise and Ronald and his mother telling him how she wants him _happy_ instead of _surviving_ and he says, “I can’t promise I’m worth your time because I’m still proving it to myself. You talk to furniture and pretended to argue with me and I don’t do the same but I’m still... I’m still trying to figure out who I am and what I’m doing.”

  


“That’s okay.” It’s not a question, or an affirmation, simply a statement, a status of the things between them, stretching out like so many gossamer threads in the sunlight.

  


“It is okay,” Draco confirms, and he laughs, relieved that Harry gets it, and realizes in the same breathtaking way as when he realized he was in love that how could Harry _not_ get it, not understand his own version of life that he was struggling with and not be alright with it, “It’s going to be okay.”

  


“It is. And,” Harry says, wrapping his brown hand around his pale one, the callouses rubbing across the soft skin there that rested on his wrist, right above his pulse, “At least we’re not two miserable blokes sitting in a restaurant, waiting for a date who will never show up.” Draco laughs, deep from his core, and agrees that this, in whatever form, for however long, is worth having.

  


“So to confirm, since I didn’t before, this means we’re dating?”

  


“If you wish.”

  


“If _you_ wish,” Harry echoes back. He’s not sure what his emotions look like, splayed out carelessly and open on his face, but whatever they are, Harry likes them because then they’re kissing again. And it’s not perfect but it’s a perfect moment, distilled into a memory that he’ll keep forever. They’d spent so long nearly crashing into one another, nearly drifting apart that this felt like settling into some bone deep rhythm that only they could feel. A shared pulse. Pansy had said something forever ago about ‘perfect, entrancing, celestial circles around one another’ and even if it wasn’t that’s what this felt like.

  


Maybe it’s Gryffindor optimism rubbing off on him or Slytherin pride telling him that he’s earned this, but whenever Draco will look back on this, he’s going say it was worth it.

  


So worth it.

  


* * *

  


“I’m really sorry, this is—“ The mousey girl behind the till seemed nearly in tears as the machine in front of her. What Harry called a ‘Till,’ gave another mournful tone. “—This is my first day.”

  


“It’s alright,” Harry smiled at her encouragingly, “Do you know how much it is?” Draco nearly rolled his eyes, which, of course, the girl saw and made her even more flustered.

  


On the counter sat two Mars Bars, a packet of crisps, and something called a Toblerone, which Draco was most intrigued to try, considering it came wrapped in a fancy gold box. Above him, the light flickered the way that all Muggle lights did and he tried to will it to stop, rather than complain about it, as he had before in the last corner shop they visited.

  


It had started as a conversation about childhood sweets.

  


Ostensibly as Harry had felt the need to order dessert at every restaurant they visited, they often ended up talking about it as they finished their meal or on the walk home. He ate dessert as often as he could, trying a variety of never-ending sweets that, while doing nothing to add to his waistline, left his lips sweet. At least that was something Draco could get behind. But on a hot summer night like this one, the hot puddings at the restaurant would have been unbearable. So naturally, they had to find something else.

  


“I remember Dudley always asking for money and eating enough ice cream to make him sick. If it hadn’t melted by the time he’d left the shop and gotten back to Privet Drive,” Harry started, walking with Draco at an easy strolling pace past Regent’s Park. There was no rush in how they walked, no need to go fast or slow. Their jobs, once things had settled, left them with many empty hours to fill in between.

  


By now, Draco was used to the stop that they would make at the various corner stores on their way back to their home to get a few treats, and the bits of information that, on quiet streets and busy streets, Harry would disseminate to him, more time than not in an offhand way, and sometimes in a quiet way that would leave him staring up at the sky, an inky black that only existed in crowded, well-lit cities.

  


Sometimes it was impersonal pieces of memory: “Here’s that place where Hermione met with her parents again,” or “The Knight Bus almost ran over an old woman here,” which he had coupled with a rakish grin, his warm brown skin dimpling as he waited for Draco to laugh and more often then not, roll his eyes. Other times, it was more personal, and completely unrelated to what they were seeing: “The only memory I have of my parents is the sound of my mother trying to save me, screaming for my life to be spared,” or, “That scar on my hand is from Umbridge and her blood quill.” It was hard telling, at first, what Draco should say or not say. Often, he would say nothing, trying to understand. Sometimes, he couldn’t help but lash out, angry and vengeful at enemies that no longer existed, except in the nightmares they both had. Harry would say nothing, and sigh, in that long heavy way that reminded him of very old men.

  


It wasn’t that Harry was trying to make him feel terrible, or discount, at any point, the things that he had gone through at the Manor and after the trials shortly after the war. He was merely trying to comprehend all that had happened in the 24 years since a mad man, drunk on the idea of power, had changed his life forever. It was an idea that had come from the littlest Weasley, shortly after the two had broken up for good, telling him to get some help. He’d gone, ‘only twice out of spite,’ before going a few more times and quitting.

  


But the talking hadn’t stopped since.

  


Regardless of past walks, it was on this walk that the idea had been proposed:

  


“You know, we could just toss a few sweets in the freezer.”

  


“What?”

  


“You know,” Harry moved slightly closer to him to avoid running into the group of school girls who were distracted by a window display of summer dresses and bikinis, all chattering away, “When you put like, a Mars bar or a lion bar into the freezer and eat it once its frozen.” He didn’t move back for a second, but then the sticky heat was palpable and he had to maintain their previous distance.

  


“Why on earth—“

  


“You know, if you can’t afford the expensive corner store ice cream or you just can’t be arsed to walk down the street.” Sometimes Harry would get like that, like the Muggle part of him, the part where he’d grown up in years of ignorance of magic, would rear up and demanded to be noticed. It was something he was conflicted on. It rose up in the most unlikely places, like getting a ‘telly’ to watch ‘football,’ for what Draco considered the most boring waste of time ever. Harry didn’t even support a team. But regardless of how many times they both fell asleep watching the little men run around on the screen, every Saturday Harry seemed compelled to turn it on and he was compelled to join him. They would sit, muted, Draco half reading whatever he was in the middle of and Harry staring blankly at the screen, until he dozed off, Draco not far behind him. It was almost something like a ritual, a quiet space they built around themselves.

  


Anyway, that was how they ended up in the one corner shop in all of Muggle London that seemed to have broken down. _This_ , Draco thought with a sort of halfhearted venom, _was exactly why there’s magic._ Magic tills never needed something as silly as ’soft wearing updates,’ whatever those were, and as such you always knew how much money you needed before you could return to the comfort of your cooled home and sit and listen to the heavy storm clouds that had been rolling in all day release their rain. If nothing else, the sheer convenience of it all was astounding.

  


He sighed again, “We could just try the shop closer to home.” This, while innocuous seeming, seemed to make the girl even more prone to tears.

  


“I—I am so sorry, sir—“ she tried to tell Draco. Harry gave him a look that said very plainly _Be Nice_.

  


“It’s not your fault, obviously,” he hastily added, “Bloody machines.” This seemed to be a good catchall for the mechanical maladies that happened in the non-magic world and most Muggles seemed to agree with it. She nodded in response, her shivering name tag said Matilda, and she wiped her eyes prematurely, which only served to make her seem even younger. She seemed eager to try and save the sale by starting to ramp up into a conversation about how much the machine’s fault it was.

  


“Here,” Harry finally said, saving them all from the possible small talk that might have started, and Draco once again thanked Merlin for his partner’s preternatural ability to interject that the most inopportune times for the people around him, “It’s 4 quid and 20 p right?”

  


Matilda looked at the candies and the crisps and looked back at him, smile breaking out. This was also a common occurrence, apparently something about Harry would just cause members of both sexes to break into smiles (something Draco would deny but secretly made him pleased and vain that Harry was all for him). Draco posited once, perhaps while intoxicated on some extremely good scotch that they were drinking because they ran out of wine and had to break into the ‘Chosen One Liquor Gifts,’ that his messy hair reminded people of a lost puppy with floppy ears hence their kind words and smiles. This of course prompted his response, “So does that include you?” accompanied by this half-lechorous-half-endearing grin. And Draco could barely save face, feeling his skin flush outside of the alcohol, as he responded, “Well, obviously but that doesn’t mean you can skirt the dishes every time you throw bedroom eyes at me—“ and after that there wasn’t much else they spoke of on the subject that night. At least not with words. And the dishes still weren’t done.

  


“That’s right,” Matilda smiled bravely at the nice man who also just happened to make it a habit of saving the world. It was hot and sticky and he just wanted to be a home in the cool calm quiet of their flat. “Thanks, I just— sometimes I forget that we don’t always need the machine.”

  


Wait.

  


Harry just… knew the price?

  


“No problem,” Harry responded, “Happens to all of us,” he gave another winning smile as he slid the paper across the table, a ‘fiver’ as he always called it, “Just be lucky I can still do it without a pen and paper.”

  


Matilda just laughed in response, like Harry hadn’t just created a price out of thin air, doing some sort of magic with his usual devil-may-care attitude towards the secrecy statute. Draco could only shrewdly stare at him and hope that the Ministry would take mercy on his idiotic boyfriend.

  


Harry noticed him scrutinizing him and looked slightly affronted at, what Draco assumed was, his utter expression of scrutiny and disbelief at his lack of propriety. It was, with some pride, an expression often reserved for either the boy-who-lived’s utter lack of knowledge, or conversely, the obscure and pointless knowledge he seemed to have.

  


“What’s that look for, I know things, I can do maths and stuff...”

  


“And stuff...” Draco repeated, still staring at him. Matilda seemed to look between the two, sliding over some silver and copper coins across the counter slowly, unwillingly to break apart their staring.

  


“Oh whatever you poncy git, just because it’s not some pur— things like polo and fencing doesn’t mean the common people are devoid of talents. Thanks, you can keep the change.” He added, swiping up the chocolate and pulling Draco out of his astonishment and into the street.

  


“Poncy!” Draco rolled his eyes, “Why I haven’t heard that in ages Potter.”

  


“Belt up, you’re being reasonably weird again.” Reasonably weird have become their codeword for anything related to the seven years that they had spent being hated enemies and nearly killing one another before ending up falling in love and moving into domestic bliss together; courtesy of one Ronald Weasley-Granger, and one of his finer (and only) bon mots to date, in Draco’s opinion.

  


“Well,” the blonde continued, “I find it perfectly reasonable considering you did wandless magic— again— in a shop.”

  


“Draco, I didn’t do any magic, it was just mental maths.”

  


“And what, you learned this...when?” Harry sighed and took Draco’s hand, as if the basics of arithmacy were just taught casually at Hogwarts, and continued walking with him towards their flat, the clouds rumbling more as they made their way up the street.

  


“In school— not Hogwarts, regular Muggle school, and then I ended up having to run to the corner store to get whatever Aunt Petunia had forgotten she’d needed for dinner. I had to know what change was needed or it was no dinner and a night in the cupboard, more if they thought I’d bought something for myself. Sometimes she would misjudge what money was needed and I’d have to make do.” Draco felt the familiar hot flare of anger and resentment that boiled up from some protective place and tamped it back down, not willing to ruin their night with another discussion about just how wrong it was to lock a child anywhere dark and damp and isolated. Instead, he just said:

  


“So that was something they taught? Arithmatic maths?”

  


“Well, no,” Harry conceded, “Though, I think in sixth form, you’d have to do all sorts of complex spatial maths and reasoning. But up until I went to Hogwarts that was something I learned every day.”

  


This topic of conversation, what Muggles studied, turned out to be quite the engaging one, because it took them all the way back to the flat and through a half bottle of wine while the sweets chilled in the freezer.

  


“And so, eventually,” Draco said, pointing with his wine glass, while Harry watched him, bemused, his hand resting on his pale ankle, thumb rubbing the delicate bone, as they sat across from one another on their loveseat, “You complete yourrrrr...A Levels—“

  


“Right, and like OWLs or NEWTs—“

  


“Whatever you get determines what you study in university.”

  


“You’ve got it.” And when Harry smiled at him, it was like watching the sunrise. _Merlin, Merlot always makes me maudlin._ Wincing internally, Draco took another sip of the wine, _and fond of odd rhyming schemes apparently._

  


“But everyone starts off learning the same things.”

  


“Just like how everyone learns charms or potions or transfiguration. Just, Maths and literature and grammar and such.”

  


Draco laid back, thinking on this.

  


“I think I would like if literature was taught in magic schools.”

  


“You do like reading,” Harry added, patting his ankle again before getting up and heading to the freezer to get the sweets while Draco watched him over the arm of the chair. This was his favorite kind of night— just the two of them and pleasant discussion. He wasn't sure he would ever get used to the feeling.

  


“Hmm,” he started, “What was your favorite subject?”

  


“In Muggle primary school or—“

  


“Both,” he amended, “Either.” Harry laughed, draining the rest of the wine glass as the placed the half unwrapped sweets on the porcelain plate. He filled another glass before walking back over with all three somehow balanced with that seeker’s sense of grace he seemed to retain.

  


“I think in primary school, it was Maths, because I was good at it, and it was practical, for money and cooking and at Hogwarts, I think I would say...” He paused, sitting down, “I think I would say Charms.”

  


“Charms?!” Draco sat up, barely avoiding hitting the plate in his kneejerk reaction. “Why Charms?”

  


“Well, it’s a pleasant subject, Flitwick never tried to kill me and I think it was the only class where no one expected anything of me and I was decent at it. What about you?” Distracted, he thought on this as he watched Harry take a bite of cold Mars Bar.

  


“Initially, I had every intention of saying Potions—“

  


“Naturally—“

  


“Piss off. Then I thought about it and I realized I never really liked potions, learning about them, I was just good at them. But I did really like Transfiguration— the idea of knowing something well enough to make it into something else.”

  


“Makes sense, with you going into cursebreaking.”

  


“How so?” Harry had the strangest ideas about the magic arts sometimes.

  


“You just said it,” he said, holding out a cold sweet for Draco to bite off, “It’s all about knowing something well enough you can change it— that’s cursebreaking, knowing a curse well enough and inside and out you can break it. It’s a lot of research and discovery and then you finally test it.”

  


“I must say,” Draco grinned at him, “That might be the most eloquent description—“

  


“—Oh come off it—“

  


“I mean it,” he added more sincerely after a short laugh, twisting their fingers together, “You have a good way of looking at it all.”

  


Well, there wasn’t much else Harry could say about that but smile at him, and though Draco would tell anyone outside of their family and friends that his being with Harry was obviously for the fame and fortune, it was really for this, quiet conversations and frozen sweets in the candlelight while the storm blew around outside, a separate set of spaces made into one.

  


So _so_ worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Superposition, n. [soo-per-p _uh_ - **zish** - _uh_ n]
> 
>   1. To be able to place an object in the space occupied by another, so that the two figures coincide throughout their whole extent 
>   2. The equal potential to be found in any possible state and all of them at the same time, throughout all universes 
> 

> 
>   
> Huge thank you’s to Bel for helping me come up with the original idea and encouraging me to turn this into A ThingTM and a huge thank you to Kat for listening to me warble, having no judgements when it came to fic and for stanning Drarry from many miles away. Bonus points to Di for being my rock ( since forever.)  
> (There will most definitely be a sequel)  
> 
> 
>   1. [Good News - Julien Baker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSgWPJy01es)
>   2. [Bottles and Cans - McCafferty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOf2FZqIEjE)
>   3. [One of One - duendita](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8gwYIrJsIys)
>   4. [I’m So Tired - Fugazi](https://youtu.be/_Nv11dYMsXQ)
>   5. [Killing Me Softly - Fugees](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ppz-cwLeqo)
>   6. [Daddy Issues - The Neighbourhood](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnLAa6_hB9A)
>   7. [Polonaise B Flat Major, D 580 - Franz Schubert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJLtKxahqiM)
>   8. [Piano Concerto No. 2 II. Larghetto - Frédéric Chopin](https://youtu.be/Q_dSI0gVbp0)
>   9. [Father of Mine - Everclear](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkcbxjWG9Mc)
>   10. [My Idea of Fun - Wingnut Dishwashers Union](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AagXbraxPK0)
>   11. [I’m not a good person - Pat the Bunny](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMyDK3VHYPw)
>   12. [Conversations with the Self Centered - Apes of the State](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6kRU6fXzHEo)
>   13. [Drunk Again - Reel Big Fish](https://youtu.be/p3MM0S4JreQ)
>   14. [Holy - Frightened Rabbit](https://youtu.be/Ul1_I9FvSgY)
>   15. [I Follow Rivers - Lykke Li](https://youtu.be/Ww38Bz7mBGg)
>   16. [Missed Calls - Mac Miller](https://youtu.be/0GUa5Uz73k0)
>   17. [Truly Madly Deeply - Yokelore](https://youtu.be/4qAzO8FbHn4)
>   18. [Walk on the Ocean - Toad The Wet Sprocket](https://youtu.be/12bM1CqHoBY)
>   19. [Rejection - My Name is Ian](https://youtu.be/ZbZMNNkmIXI)
>   20. [Get Bummed Out - Remember Sports](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tt61RXUzTPs)
>   21. [Lost Without You - Freya Ridings](https://youtu.be/-RT3uFugS0k)
>   22. *[Hand in My Pocket - Alanis Morrissette](https://youtu.be/aLnsjWijfUI)* 
>   23. *[Always - blink-182](https://youtu.be/CvtJVku_mJw)* 
>   24. *[Superposition - Young the Giant](https://youtu.be/QxJhrwyn0M4) ([Bonus Live Version too](https://youtu.be/Fjw2n8-jpL0))* 
> 

> 
>   
>  [Full Playlist Link](https://open.spotify.com/user/sko9/playlist/3gN6SC5eALPNyKnI4dQU7r?si=MOw2GQuDQrid89mFUWy7FA)


End file.
